


Ingenious Virtue

by primeideal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Alternate Universe - Slavery, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2017-12-24 02:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 45,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/pseuds/primeideal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Consigned from the life of a slave to fighting in vicious bloodsports, Percy Weasley has no idea what lies in wait. Everything from a surprising family reunion to a mysterious old book brings a change from the normal routines of slavery, but perhaps it's Oliver Wood who has the most to teach him about life, death, and everything in between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the "2013 Summer of Slaves" fest at HP Owned on Livejournal. The prompt I claimed was "Any setting (magical or non-magical, AU or canon) with a slave fighting ring. Masters use their slaves as fighters for their amusement, including betting, tournaments etc," with the additional suggestions "Maybe someone, who had no idea anything like this existed before, gets caught up in it and now has to fight for their survival. Maybe the romantic slave/slave pairing ends up having to fight each other. Maybe the defeated masters do not only lose money, but also their slave. Maybe the winner of such a tournament gets their freedom. A myriad of possibilities really. Somehing darkish and violent would be great, but take this wherever you want."
> 
> I was ambivalent about some of these tropes and even the pairing, at first. Then I started brainstorming all the different directions I could take it. And it's hardly an exaggeration to say that this fic ate my brain. Many thanks go out to the original fest mods for their gracious extensions, and to the amazing starduchess for an incredible betaing job. Any remaining errors are of course my own.
> 
> This fic is complete, but will update here on Mondays. Starting with an extra chapter, because this one was extremely short.

"You can't do this."  
  
Bartemius Crouch the Second stared into space, twiddling his fingers against his robes. "On the contrary, Percy, this is  _exactly_ what I am allowed to do. Unless you've realized that insubordination is a waste of time on both our parts?"  
  
Percy sighed. "Swearing oaths of loyalty is a waste of time on my part, as well as yours. I don't see what you're getting out of this." He'd always been of more use to Crouch the Second in the house. Sorting papers. Writing owls. Even cleaning the kitchen! Percy inhaled the warm air. It had felt like nothing special, revisiting every nook and cranny of the dank corners, but compared to the alternatives...  
  
"In, ah, unstable political times, declarations of allegiance are even more necessary than usual. One would not want to seem lax."  
  
Whatever that was supposed to mean. "I'm not going anywhere. I have my spells, I have my markings, I don't see why I have to swear some extra oaths, too."  
  
"And inasmuch as you are not going anywhere, your protestations seem unnecessary."  
  
"I'm a  _clerk_!" Percy blurted. "You can't throw me into an arena, I haven't the slightest idea what I'd be doing! I'll be killed right away, and then you'd be minus one clerk. At least think about your bottom line!"  
  
Crouch the Second folded his hands and then, one by one, spread his fingers free. "I suppose," he said, without making eye contact, "that you are right, at that."


	2. Chapter 2

The witch was neither brusque nor overly kind, just going about her business. "Hands out," she said, holding the wand tight.  
  
 _Crouch II_  read the small black letters on the back of Percy's hand. He glanced down, taking one final look at the familiar pattern, then blinked as she began her incantation.  
  
Crouch. He didn't suppose the man ever knew the meaning of the word. Standing about at work, waving his hand briskly and demanding an audience, perhaps. Or idly reading in bed while he waited for dinner to be served. Even sitting up in the top box at the games, his posture firm. Crouch the Second was not a man who had to bend and cower for anyone.  
  
"This part might sting," said the witch briskly, taking a moment to reposition her wand so it hovered over Percy's wrist instead. Percy avoided reply, guessing, correctly, that it wouldn't be too bad in the grand scheme of things. As she continued to trace circles in the air, the form of a green snake took hold, wrapping around his arm until it bit its tail.  
  
"You'll be wanting a poultice." She nodded at a wrapping that Percy quickly picked up and pressed against the tattoo. Within a few moments, any residual pricklings had died down. There was no incentive to make the process of being marked painful. It was a private occasion, bureaucratic really.  
  
If you were going to all the trouble of hurting someone, you might as well do it where there was a crowd. The pay was better.  
  
"Th—" Percy stopped himself. "Er. Where do I go from here?"  
  
"Do you get Floosick?" she asked.  
  
"I don't Floo that much." Flooing was for people accustomed to walking in ashes, or, at the other extreme, people who had somewhere to go.  
  
"That doesn't matter," she said, "you'll go through worse. Come along."  
  
She waved a hand, and he followed, keeping measured control of each footstep, marking out his own slow time. Not until they reached the fireplace did he catch sight of his hand again.  
  
The witch called out a destination he couldn't quite place as she sprinkled dust into the fire. "In you get, then," she said unceremoniously, and Percy followed through.  
  
"Hello?" he called, turning around, but there was no one behind him. He'd arrived in what he took to be a utilitarian kitchen. There was no corresponding jar of powder on the mantle there, but a cooking pot sat off to the side while various drawers were closed neatly. There would be spoons or spatulas. Nothing too sharp.  
  
"You," came a high, unfamiliar voice behind him, "must be a Weasley."  
  
"Er," said Percy, turning out the door to glance at the speaker. He caught sight first of another green snake, shining bright against the stranger's dark skin. "Yeah," he nodded. "Percy. And—and you?"  
  
"John Messenger. You're...younger than the twins?"  
  
"No!" he snapped, a little more quickly than he wanted to. "A couple years older."  
  
"Oh. Huh. Must be new."  
  
"To this gig? Very. And what kind of name is yours, or is it your job title?"  
  
John glared pointedly, but then giggled. "For some reason nobody sends messengers out to the loo, no."  
  
"Well, how'm I supposed to know? I'm new here."  
  
"Evidently."  
  
"D—" He didn't know how to begin. Of  _course_  they had plenty of turnover, but was he taking someone's spot, some recent departure? He'd been a  _clerk_ ; it wasn't like he followed the calendar. Sure, he could write up invitations for the summer solstice or express Crouch the Second's regrets that he could not make the Samhain feasts, but for Percy every day passed much like the next.  
  
An irritated John—what did he have to rush for?—waved Percy on. "C'mon, then."  
  
He followed out of the kitchen, stepping into an open space with a few crude markings on the ground. The sub-building they had just left stood half a floor higher than the rest of the barracks that surrounded the yard, and it seemed to be some kind of a central area. John confirmed this, with a nod as they turned. "Meals are in there. Do you have a weapon?"  
  
"Do I  _look_  like I have a weapon?"  
  
"I mean, you know, a  _weapon_ , a type."  
  
Percy stared. "I really don't know what you're talking about. I'm sorry, I don't belong here."  
  
"That much," said John, "is clear. Okay, well, I guess it doesn't matter at the moment. Just—we're in the bunks across the way. Stay out of the side dorms."  
  
"Fine," said Percy. It wasn't like he expected to have the run of the place.  
  
They crossed the barren yard, walking into a hallway full of rooms with identical wide doors. "I suppose you can try this one," said John, flinging one open—seemingly at random—to reveal a plain cot and little more in the way of furnishings.  
  
"Try it?" He raised his eyebrows. "Is someone else expected?"  
  
John rolled his eyes. "You can have it for now. Once you get your weapon sorted out, you'll want to move around by others of your sort, you know. Fraternize with your fellows."  
  
"Er, all right. Thank you."  
  
John nodded curtly and jogged down the hall.  
  
Percy tried to remember his dreams, that first night. His Mum had said dreams were real magic that no one could take from you, and they were brightest your first night in a new bed. But if he had any, he didn't remember.


	3. Chapter 3

Percy never lay awake in bed. There was too much to do. He leaped out, fumbled in the dark to put on his robes by touch, and made his way into the hallway.  
  
Then he froze.  
  
He was standing alone. There was no Crouch the Second to serve, no breakfast to cook or robes to clean. Just the expansive hallway. Tentatively, he made his way to the opposite door, and then sprinted across the yard. A light rain had picked up overnight.  
  
In the kitchen there was a gray-haired woman, leaning over the stove. She blinked several times at him, rather nearsightedly. "Hullo there?"  
  
"Er, hello," he said, "I'm Percy Weasley. I'm new—"  
  
"Right you are," she said. "Goodness, you'll be wanting to eat up! But have a seat."  
  
"Er...yes." He took a seat at the table, but barely was he seated than he began to fidget. What was he supposed to  _do_? It was all a waste of time. Unless..."Am I late?"  
  
"Goodness no," she said, "you're a bit early, is all. Breakfast will be when some of the others come along, but don't hold back on food, you'll have first dibs. Though, I suppose you haven't worked up much of an appetite."  
  
"Not yet."  
  
She laughed. "Plenty of time for that, don't you worry!"  
  
Percy raised his eyebrows. "I think I have plenty to worry about. Do you do all the cooking yourself?"  
  
"Oh yes."  
  
"Can I—do you need any help?"  
  
She laughed. "No, thank you. Go have a seat. You'll want to be meeting the others, I'm sure," she said, and gave a smile that seemed too wild for the early morning.  
  
Nervously, Percy did so, trying not to squirm. It seemed far too long before anyone came in, but then he heard a pair of footsteps—no, two—  
  
"What on  _earth_?"  
  
Percy turned, and all thought of squirming seemed impossible as his jaw dropped. Two well-built young men, pale, stocky and strong, were facing him. "George?" he gasped. "Fred?"  
  
"Now come along," said one of them, "you ought to keep up.  _I'm_  George and  _that_  one's Fred."  
  
"No, I'm not," said the other.  
  
"I..." Percy trailed off. "Oh, come on." Forgetting at last the thoughts of breakfast, he rose from the table and embraced the latter twin, and the former closed in as well. That, surely, had to be the best way to build his strength, his arms wrapped tightly around his brothers.  
  
At last, the first speaker pulled away. "Now then," he said, "what are you doing here?"  
  
"If I'd known it was this easy to find you lot, I'd have gotten myself chucked in sooner."  
  
"Our reputation hasn't preceded us?" the other gasped. "Tsk. Poor form on our part."  
  
"But answer the question," said the first twin. "Surely you haven't gotten political, have you?"  
  
"I...er...might've refused to swear an oath." Percy blushed. "Didn't see the point, it's all rubbish."  
  
"Well, now!" he smiled. "George, I think we'll have to concede we're related to him."  
  
"You see I am George," George said.  
  
"That's your only hint," Fred said. "We're expecting you to keep up."  
  
"It'll—give me a while to get used to it." Percy looked down. "I'm sorry. It's horrible of me..."  
  
"These are horrible times, brother dearest," said George. "One does what one can."  
  
"Particularly when what one can involves breakfast," Fred declared. "Pip pip!"  
  
And pretty soon they were set to eating. Fred and George introduced Percy to a loud gang of men who seemed to be interchangeably referred to as JimmyandJackieandAndyandRitchie, and who each put away more of the cook's surprisingly hearty oatmeal than he managed. Percy got the feeling that his brothers tended to join in the raucous banter, but not on a day like that. Not on a day when they had to get to know each other, and catch up on the outside world. Despite all the notes he had taken for Crouch, all the paperwork he'd done and the messages he'd summarized, they were surprisingly uninterested in politics. They wanted to hear if there was anything from Charlie.  
  
"I think he's left the country," said George, "he must've."  
  
"He might not have," Percy tried to explain. "There're lots of wizards. I wouldn't have heard of him."  
  
"What about Harry Potter?" asked Fred. "Is there such a person?"  
  
"You git," George cut in, "would Potter be corresponding with Ministry people?"  
  
"Well, I don't know. Maybe they're scared, maybe they're trying to catch him—"  
  
"Not that I know," said Percy.  
  
What could he tell them? Crouch had been a distractible master, prone to get caught up in micromanaging his own affairs instead of trusting Percy to handle things for him. Fred and George clearly didn't care. He needed to learn who  _they_  were—individually and jointly—and he'd have plenty more time, he supposed, to learn the language of their world.  
  
If he was lucky.  
  
"Any more?" the cook asked.  
  
Percy shook his head. "No thanks."  
  
She laughed. "Try again at lunchtime, eh."  
  
"Where do I go?"  
  
"You'll be wanting to train," Fred laughed. JimmyorJackieorAndyorRitchie gave him a glare, as if he was usurping important practice time from those who stood half a chance, but Percy just gulped. He'd just run into his brothers, and he had no intention of getting himself killed before he could really know them. "Right. Training. Where?"  
  
"Outside, come on," said George, waving him along. Percy followed into the yard, which was somewhat warmer already, and blinked at a burly man approaching from one of the side dorms.  
  
The newcomer stared a moment, then glanced at Fred. "This is your little brother?"  
  
"No," said Fred, "our mature and wizened older brother, Percy. Percy, Oliver Wood."  
  
"Morning," Percy nodded.  
  
Oliver paused. "...and?"  
  
"And what?" Percy snapped.  
  
"And what are we doing here?"  
  
"I—I just got—arrived. I have to train. They said we're out here."  
  
"Dare I ask what weapon you take?"  
  
"I have no idea."  
  
"Ever seen a match?"  
  
"No? I don't—didn't—get out any, for some reason..."  
  
"And you...oh, for goodness' sakes.  _You_  are actually Charlie Weasley's brother?"  
  
"Oy!" Fred cut in, "we don't all have to be of the same type. Look at us!"  
  
"Yes, but...so help me, you look like you know what you're doing."  
  
"Everyone was new once," said Percy.  
  
"That's as may be. Right," Oliver sighed. "You lot, Weasley, Weasley...er...twins, get on with the laps. Weasley," he nodded at Percy, "and I will be back in time, no doubt."  
  
"Call me Percy."  
  
"I suppose I have no choice. Okay, come along," and he waved Percy back towards the side dorms.  
  
"Er," said Percy, "Messenger—John—told me I shouldn't go in there?"  
  
"Oh, not without me, we'll be fine."  
  
Cautiously, Percy made his way in through another door, off into another hallway with larger rooms, spread farther apart. Oliver led him to a room at the end of the hall, somewhat larger and brighter than Percy's own, but almost as barren, save perhaps a box under the bed.  
  
"Er..." Percy trailed off.  
  
"Just need a place to talk," Oliver shrugged, "let the others start their drills, rather than putting up with this gabbering. Here's a question for you. Did you swear any oaths, when you came here?"  
  
"No! That is, I refused to swear a loyalty oath, before, that's why I came—"  
  
"That doesn't matter. I mean  _here_ , did you swear any oaths?"  
  
"Well, no."  
  
"Give your word not to run away?"  
  
"No, there's no one who brought me here—"  
  
"Did you pledge that you'd put up a proper fight, when the time came?"  
  
"I'm telling you, none of this—"  
  
"That is the point." Oliver crossed his arms.  
  
"...What?"  
  
"There's wizards out there, who give you different markings." Percy peered closer at Oliver's hand. There was not the green serpent that Fred and George also bore, but rather  _Bagman_. "Who can curse you or set up wards to stop you running—maybe even control your mouth, if they're dark enough. The point is, no one  _needs_  to make you swear anything, you're already a slave."  
  
"So what?"  
  
"Pay attention. This is your first lesson."  
  
"Seriously?"  
  
"Listen." Oliver turned to look him in the eye, his gaze insistent. "Every fight has a winner and a loser. The best you can hope for is an even chance—and looking at you, that's putting it generously."  
  
Percy, unused to dissent, kept silent.  
  
"We're going to practice, a lot. I intend to teach you how to win. But if I don't teach you how to lose, my job's only half done."  
  
"I don't know what you're on about, but I suspect I don't need much practice."  
  
"You'd be surprised." Oliver turned away. "Magic or Muggle, master or slave, you're just as human as any one of the people who sent you here. The amphitheater is the one place where they get to see you—where you get to prove your dignity to them. You can be courageous or honorable or dignified or what have you, even if you're the smallest weakling in the arena. But I can't make you do that.  _They_  can't make you, as strong as they are, if you'd rather spite them. It has to be your decision."  
  
"Does it matter?"  
  
"Again, I guess you have to decide. Here, this is going nowhere. Forget about that for now. Let's see what sort of fighter you might want to be, and maybe we can get you started in some practice."  
  
"I told you, I have no idea what's going on."  
  
"That much was obvious. Right, this school isn't half bad at training percullors in general. It's all a question of what equipment you have, and that determines what style you fight in, though different builds tend to help."  
  
"Well, obviously I'm a bit taller than Fred and George..."  
  
"Right, yeah. Charlie was a petiatorus, and brilliant at it too, but the practice equipment for that is utter rubbish. You don't want any of that."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Well, at the real fights you'll have proper magical equipment, obviously. But for some reason or another, no one thought it'd be a good idea to give a bunch of condemned slaves magical tools around the clock. So, the petiatorus' weapons are particularly magic-driven, and they don't have much armor to get accustomed to. You really have to be good, in the arena. Or lucky."  
  
"Well, that's what you're here for, isn't it?"  
  
"Very funny. I—that is—never mind that, there's janiti and saecutors still to think over. You're tall enough to be a janitus, I reckon, and I could certainly help you out there. But..."  
  
"But what?"  
  
"Well, I don't know if that would be the best fit. There're some particular strategies...well, I'd talk your ear off."  
  
"That's what I'm here for."  
  
"All the same. If you were a saecutor, I wouldn't have to be so much on your case. And you could practice for Messenger, who could use someone else to learn with. If you're watching each other, it's easier for me to really point out what you're doing right or wrong. Plus, if there's only one of each of you, not counting Spinnet, then if they want one of us to fight from some type, there's no choice. Two saecutors, and maybe the owner would send in Messenger first, give you more time to catch up."  
  
"Who's Spinnet, and why don't we count him?"  
  
"It's a her," said Oliver, "and that's basically why. I barely know how to train her. Not all the schools accept women, and there's no telling what you have to learn to defend against."  
  
"They don't fight men?"  
  
"No, they've got their own equipment. I suppose they're as close to saecutors as anything else, at that, but Messenger refuses to spar with her. Yeah, you'll make an all right saecutor, if I have anything to say about it."  
  
"I suppose, if you say so."  
  
"Come to think of it, what did you do for Crouch?"  
  
Percy blinked. "What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
"I mean, what all do you really know how to do? Cook, clean..."  
  
"Oh, most everything. Writing memos, sending owls."  
  
"Oh, you can read then?"  
  
"Of course! And write."  
  
Oliver's face lit up. "You don't get much of that around these parts. Hang on, let me show you something."  
  
He knelt to pull out a box from under the bed, delicately reaching inside to pull out what looked to be an old book, or maybe a notebook of some kind—awkwardly bound together, with a few well-printed pages and several more sloppier parchments shoved in farther on. Waving his hand over the front to dust it off, he set it on his lap as he sat down next to Percy.  
  
 _Bruti Biblia_  the front cover read, and Percy squinted. "Is that a code?"  
  
"No. Although at this point, some of it might as well be to you, but no, it's just showing off. 'Brutus' Bible,' it's called—or at least it was at first. I don't know whether there ever was such a person or a pseudonym or what. But we—added to it over the years. Various people, fighters and coaches."  
  
"A Bible?"  
  
"In the sense of it's got lots of truth, but if you read it cover to cover you'll be bored to tears. Here, have a look." He opened it to the first few pages, flipping past the signature of some Brutus Scrimgeour. "See? This is all about how a percullor can fight a petiatorus. You don't really care, do you, being neither. But once you start sparring, it'll give you ideas about how people used to fight. And then, a little later on, there's stuff about what a percullor might try against a saecutor. You can read that and have an idea about how the saecutors were fighting. Probably this is more useful than it should be, really. No one else reads it, so it's not like the ideas are going out of style."  
  
Percy flipped through as the pages faded from detailed paragraphs to cursory lists to handwritten scrawls. There were a few diagrams and a few rough sketches, but nothing like some of the elaborate books of Crouch's he'd seen. "There's nothing magical about the book?"  
  
"Nah," said Oliver, "stands to reason, wouldn't want the slaves getting fancy quills or anything like that."  
  
"But this was all printed nicely. Someone must have had access to a typesetter?"  
  
Oliver shrugged. "I don't know. The point is it's here, and the goal is to live long enough to add to it someday. Maybe no reading for the time being, we ought to get you to work. Yeah?"  
  
"I...guess?" It wasn't like Percy was going to disagree.  
  
So they reemerged back into the courtyard. "Right," called Oliver. "Hey, Messenger?"  
  
"Yeah?" said John.  
  
"We've talked it over. I want to try Weasley here as a saecutor. You want someone to spar with?"  
  
"Do I have a choice? No hard feelings, Weasley, but this isn't about me."  
  
"Well said. All right. Er, so, I guess the first thing to do is get you set up with the practice weapons, eh? Sorry, let me get on that."  
  
He took off at a brisk pace back towards the side dorms, returning shortly after, carrying two boxes. One of them was immediately set upon by JimmyandJackieandAndyandRitchie, with Fred and George waiting until they were finished to dig inside.  
  
John grabbed what appeared to be a wooden short sword from the second box, irritably flipping it. "Spinnet's been using it again, it's dented."  
  
"Are any of them  _not_  dented?" Oliver asked. "Er, don't you worry, Weasley, anything you use in a real fight will be much higher quality. And, obviously, magical."  
  
"Then what's the point of training with this?"  
  
"Go ask Spinnet," said John. "Actually, no, please don't."  
  
Oliver sighed. "You need to get...accustomed...to all sorts of things. This is an easy enough starting point."  
  
"Easy?" said Percy.  
  
"Starting. Go on, pick up one of the swords."  
  
Percy reached into the box and found a sword that matched John's. "Doesn't look dented."  
  
"Brilliant, there you are then. Now, that there in your hand is a sword."  
  
Percy glared. "I'd gathered."  
  
"Well, the weapons have various degrees of magic in them, and that right there is something rather straightforward. In a real fight, it wouldn't be much more complicated, which is also a good thing for you, being new to all this. It'll have its tricks, mind you—chilling if you're getting closer to an important organ, warming up if you're just aiming at fat—things that can help you strike. But your job is to run after someone who won't be all that keen on having you catch up to them, and then you'd be stabbing them."  
  
"Oh, that's it, is it?"  
  
Oliver laughed. "Should have remembered I was dealing with Weasley humor. Right, the next thing—"  
  
"This isn't a  _joke_! It's incredibly serious! I want to know what's going  _on_!"  
  
"I was getting there. Now, the trick with saecutors is that you'll get nice and thick helmets—if you want them. There's a magical gauge, which you'll learn to control, if you balance your other armor all right. Have it close in on you, and it'll be lighter and let you run faster, but it'll choke your breathing. Let it loose, and you can breathe more freely, but it'll be heavier and slow you down."  
  
"And if you're Spinnet," said John, "you have a normal Muggle helmet, because letting witches play with helmets is just too silly."  
  
Oliver set the boxes off to one side. "As you'll no doubt realize, there are lots of different events in the fights, not just these."  
  
"And we can't practice for any of them?" Percy asked. "Just these wooden swords?"  
  
"I think you'll find that challenge enough for now. We'll see about more equipment later, but for now try to get in a few blows with Messenger."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"Like this," said John, stepping forward and slapping Percy across the shoulder with the flat of the blade.  
  
Percy's mouth opened, but he said nothing, tentatively reaching the tip of the sword out. "Am I going easy on you?"  
  
"Try your best and we'll see." John began to run backwards. Percy took off at a sprint, but John quickly widened the short lead into a larger gap across the courtyards.  
  
Surely Percy had to be able to run him into a wall? He pursued John, sword at the ready, but at the last second John turned and deflected Percy's sword with his own before taking off around the edge. Percy chugged on behind, but quickly saw John's lead widen. By the time the gap between them had reached half the way around, Percy decided to take a shortcut, turning around and trying to sprint again. A surprised John turned around a few steps later, and they continued to turn and turn again, until they'd settled into an uneasy equilibrium directly across from each other: John with the sword still at the ready, Percy panting.  
  
Oliver looked him over and laughed. "Well, you can think on your feet. That's something."  
  
"Thanks?"  
  
"Let me try something else. Stand still."  
  
"Gladly," said Percy, still trying to catch his breath.  
  
Oliver reached out, and not until he was almost on top of Percy's shoulder did Percy catch sight of a tiny sculpture in his hand. It reached towards him, then pulled away—  
  
"What was that all about?" Percy gasped, turning—three drops of blood had settled on his shoulder, the points of whatever that weapon had been forming a neat triangle.  
  
"You're going to get beaten up in practice. Get used to it, and you'll be better able to lay into Messenger later. In a real fight, this—" He opened his palm to reveal a small piece of wood, tapered to three sharp points— "is magical. And flying at you. You've got to be fast enough to run after the bloke that's throwing it, and for that you have to be able to run, even if you're bleeding a bit. Just—try and chase after Messenger for a while, yeah? Build up your endurance. Try and just carry the sword for now, get used to how it feels."  
  
Dubiously, Percy picked up his pace again, circling the edge of the courtyard. John cycled in the opposite direction, passing him a few times wordlessly, before seeming to lose interest and wandering over to where Fred and George were training with other large weapons. Oliver, for his part, was talking quickly to JimmyandJackieandAndyandRitchie, none of whom seemed to be paying a great deal of attention.  
  
"Er," Percy called, once he'd need an excuse to catch his breath, "should I be—switching things up?"  
  
"Maybe after lunch," said Oliver, "shouldn't be long."  
  
There was no telling how long that really meant. It wasn't like he couldn't stay on his feet all day, but the repetitive circles just felt futile. How long were fights supposed to run? But Percy kept jogging around, ignoring the stitch in his side, until Oliver glanced at the sun and nodded, waving them in.  
  
Lunch seemed to be made of much the same substance as breakfast, but Percy ate it more slowly, trying to prolong the rest. But once he'd realized he was the last one eating, he nervously pushed his plate towards the seemingly-bored cook, who collected it without much expression.  
  
"Right," said Oliver, once they'd gotten back outside, "how about this. You two start doing laps again, and no funny business changing directions this time." John rolled his eyes, but Percy almost wanted to smile. His first day, he still didn't know what he was doing, but he'd figured something out long enough to throw the instructor off-balance. "Every time you meet up along the way, spar. Just, a few jabs at each other. Weasley, try and defend yourself—hold your sword close to you, shoving outward, like  _that_ "—he pointed to John, gesturing, his elbow flicking up. "Then keep going. Messenger—try not to scare him too much."  
  
John rolled his eyes, but took off wordlessly, Percy trailing behind, desperate not to be stabbed from behind. The distance between them held steady for a while, but the pain in his stomach slowed him down again, and all too soon, John had caught up to him, and the flat of the blade knocked across his back. Clumsily, Percy whirled, sword at the ready. What had Oliver said? Elbows up? Down? He clenched it for a moment, nervously, and another blow sent it falling from his hands.  
  
John didn't even bother with a sarcastic remark, just picked it up, handed it back, and took off again. Percy followed resentfully. How dare he lap him so easily! The pause gave him a moment to catch his breath, and he took off not quite at full sprint. Half of his mind was trying to remember how to defend himself in case John caught up again. The other half was too exhausted to think much.  
  
The next encounter saw Percy prepare, turning around and clenching his sword. John aimed at it and Percy  _pushed_  outward, catching John a little off-balance; he took a few steps back and then swiped at Percy's upper arm. Really more of a bruise than a wound, Percy thought, as John took off in pursuit. He'd suffered worse, tripping into walls at the end of an exhausting day.  
  
That time around, John seemed to have lost an edge or two of pace. And so they continued, the shame of being lapped gradually outpacing the fear that the other man would slice him open. Once or twice Percy got in the first blow, chopping downwards roughly as if trying to slice dinner for Crouch the Second. Far more often, John did, until Oliver decided to distract him by throwing that three-pointed weapon at him and making him dodge out of the way. Though Percy only caught glimpses out of the corner of his eye, Oliver didn't seem to have a very strong throwing arm, and John dodged expertly every time.  
  
The sun dipped lower, making one end of the courtyard difficult to run through because it blinded them as they sprinted past. In time, half a cycle away from each other, Percy and John sprinted across it, and then slowed their jogging paces on the other side.  
  
"All right, that's enough," Oliver finally called. "Dinner."  
  
They plodded off to dinner, which seemed to have the prospect of some kind of vegetables. Oliver appeared to be heading in a different direction, and Percy couldn't help but call after him, "Am I getting any faster?"  
  
"Course not," Oliver laughed.  
  
"What?" He'd never had to run like that before.  
  
"You've been at it for hours, you're bound to lose a lot of energy, so you won't get faster. What, do you think I have perfect statistics, timing you with some kind of magical clock?"  
  
"I just thought, maybe—"  
  
"Maybe you are. We'll see. We'll try again tomorrow."  
  
And he slipped around the corner, leaving Percy and the others to their meal. Percy gulped down the vegetables along with the others, as there didn't seem to be anything else to stall for. As they left the small kitchen, Percy thought he caught sight of a young dark-haired woman entering, but the cook immediately accosted her and he thought it would be rude to interrupt.  
  
"Oy," said John. "W—Percy?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"New room for you, it sounds like. This way." He waved him down the hall and pointed at another room, indistinguishable from the first. "Over here. We saecutors stick together."  
  
"Er...thanks," Percy said, decidedly conscious of the fact that it had been his arrival that had necessitated a slowdown in John's own training. "I—I'd just as soon stay by my brothers, if that's all right."  
  
"They're percullors," said John blandly, as if that meant something.  
  
"Yeah...well...they're also my brothers?"  
  
"And you've been away from them for how many years, now?"  
  
"Does it matter?"  
  
John sighed. "You don't want to be mixing with the other types."  
  
"They're my  _brothers_! You said I couldn't go into the side dorms either, and Oliver took me out there—"  
  
"To show you his book or whatever he's going on about, that's different. Look, they—I'm not your master, I can't stop you, but think about it. What if you have to fight Jimmy, or someone, and he tries to slice you up beforehand?"  
  
"Well, then, I'd be dead, wouldn't I? It's not like I know how to escape from him at this point. We eat every meal together. It's not like he'd be hurting for opportunities."  
  
"That's because our school is small. Just you wait. If it fills up more, then they'd buy more instructors for us, and they'd keep us apart."  
  
"Well, until then, there're enough open rooms that I don't think I'm too bothered," Percy said, tension growing in his throat. Rules were brilliant, when they made  _sense_.  
  
John backed away. "Look, I'm just trying to help you, okay? I'll be right here; come by if you need help. Just—knock first, will you? I'm a heavy sleeper."  
  
"Yeah," Percy said halfheartedly, before deliberately trekking down to find his brothers. Fred, George, JimmyandJackieandAndyandRitchie (Percy decided he really ought to learn to tell them apart and, for that matter, be more confident in telling Fred and George apart), had all crowded into the same room and were apparently taking turns making up bawdy verses to a melody Percy didn't recognize.  
  
"What's up?" said one of the twins. George, Percy suspected.  
  
"Er—nothing," he said. "Just...wanted to say goodnight."  
  
"Do you know," said Fred (if that other had been George), "it's been so long I forgot, Percy needs to be tucked in goodnight."  
  
"I do  _not_!" Percy blurted, and it took him a moment to note that JimmyandJackieandAndyandRitchie were laughing too hard to have taken it seriously at all. Fred took advantage of their chortling to walk over to the door. "What's up?"  
  
"Don't mind me," he muttered. "Get back to them—"  
  
"Hey, no, listen. It really has been years, hasn't it? If you're going to get to know me, you have to understand. We joke about _everything_. You'll get used to it."  
  
"I just—"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I mean, I don't know what Oliver's up to. I want to learn, and I know I'm rubbish so far, but he just seems a bit...off."  
  
Fred shrugged. "It's a little early to get sick of him. When he makes you practice in the rain or snow, that's one thing, but he's been good at not getting us killed. So far."  
  
"Exactly! The point is to be able to survive, isn't it? So what's all this about learning how to lose?"  
  
Fred paused and took a few steps down the hall, nodding at Percy to follow him. "I think what he means is—there are things worse than dying. Like—and  _don't_  go spreading this around—if anything happened to George, I'd go mental."  
  
So it was Fred.  
  
"I've almost been killed a couple times, right," he went on. "In the actual moment you're too...busy to panic. But if something happened to George, and I know the odds are good but I can't help myself, there'd be nothing I could do, I'd just—lose it."  
  
Percy paused. "Is this why they don't want us mixing? John said I should stay away, so I don't get attached to you."  
  
"I think it's more of a safety thing. But the point is, once you understand that there are things worse than dying, then it's just up to you what those things are. And for Oliver, for the real serious fighters, it has something to do with their honor."  
  
"But he hasn't told me what's the big deal is."  
  
"Look, whatever's on your hands, you're still a slave. If your old owner or the games overseers wanted to kill you, they could do it. It's not like you get anything out of protesting. So I think what he's getting at is to...be brave. The rest of the world's coming all this way just to see you. You might as well look good once you have their attention."  
  
"People come out here? I thought they had special amphitheaters?"  
  
"Oh, they do. You might as well ask Oliver about that sort of thing, remind him that you don't know all that much. In fact, what you want to do is wait till it's raining, and you don't want to go outside. Then make him talk at you."  
  
Percy laughed. "I'll keep that in mind. You go get back to your songs."  
  
"Gladly," said Fred, with a mock bow. "And—you know. You'll do all right."  
  
"D'you think?"  
  
"Course!" Fred clapped him on the back. "You're a Weasley!"


	4. Chapter 4

The weather, for all Fred's advice, was slow to change. Gradually, clouds filled the skies, and so much the better, thought Percy. It made running laps more consistent without the risk of glare.  
  
Running laps. Always running away from John, or towards John, which in practice was the same thing, the courtyard being walled off as it was. Sometimes Oliver would throw the three-pronged projectile at him. A raptor, it was called, and when Percy stared at it long enough he could sometimes imagine a wide-open beak poised to strike. But that was usually when he'd been exhausted from laps after laps after laps.  
  
Only after he was already too tired to think straight would Oliver change things up, having him take a few stabs at a crude wooden stake propped into the ground. A few notches measured, roughly, where the average fighter's arms and legs would be, though it seemed far too thin to be of any use during a fight.  
  
"It doesn't matter," Oliver told him. "In a real fight you'd have to deal with shields and magically-shifting equipment. Nothing can really prepare you for the actual feel of the equipment, so you might as well hit something that won't hit back. When you're ready, we'll try you against the maces."  
  
"Do we have time for that?"  
  
"I think so. The games aren't coming as quickly as they have in the past."  
  
And when Percy really looked at the size of the maces Fred and George were whacking at each other, he decided he might as well hold off. "I have a short sword. What good is it going to do me against that?"  
  
"You'll be able to—oy! Weasleys!" Oliver broke off. For a moment Percy froze, confused, but then saw the twins were being addressed. "What're you doing practicing with each other? If I want to watch a mirror image I'll make Jimmy here duel in a puddle and it can reflect."  
  
"A puddle?" said Fred. "It's been cloudy like this all week, no sign of rain yet."  
  
"Point stands. Take turns with Messenger, whoever's not busy, go spar with Andy. He keeps shifting his weight to his left leg. Make him stop. It's a bad habit."  
  
Percy blinked. "You were saying...?"  
  
"Eh? Try running more laps."  
  
"Laps? I'm going to have to read this Brutus of yours and see how many times he actually recommends running these cursed laps!"  
  
Oliver broke into a smile. "That would be my pleasure."  
  
"When it rains," Percy insisted, "and we don't want to go outside."  
  
But when the rain finally came, it was accompanied by a visitor, and any thought of reading was abandoned as, instead, Oliver waved the fighters into his room. Percy snuck a glance at John, to see what he made of the fraternization. He did seem somewhat irritated about the whole state of affairs.  
  
"Jordan," Oliver said briskly, "this is Percy Weasley, Fred and George's brother."  
  
"Ah," said the visitor dryly, "I'd never have guessed."  
  
Percy glanced over to see what Fred and George made of that. They seemed to take it in stride, as if his humor was tolerable but not groundbreaking. "Weasley," Oliver went on, "this is Lee Jordan, who's—er—"  
  
"I'm a professional  _er_ er," Lee interjected. "I  _er_  here and there, for hire, for anyone who'll have me. It pays well."  
  
Percy's eyebrows wrinkled. "Is that some kind of innuendo?"  
  
"Oh don't give him ideas," John muttered.  
  
But Fred was laughing. "As you'll see, Lee, Percy here has rather exacting standards for humor. Won't take kindly to any of your skirting around."  
  
"Well, put it this way. I bring you lot news about the rest of the world, and I bring the gamblers— _er_. News. About who's in form, who's looking slow. Whatever they do with that is not my business. Directly."  
  
"So you work for bookies?" Percy deciphered. "Is this legal?"  
  
"Frankly, I don't keep up with the law." Lee gave a good-natured shrug, tossing his dreadlocks. "I'm just as liable to be enslaved for running afoul of something I've never heard of than something I have."  
  
"But..." he tried to think, "if you kept up with the laws...then you'd know what was illegal...so there'd be no excuse?"  
  
"Weasley?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"You're a fighter, not a Ministry slave, don't worry about it. Let's see you spar!"  
  
"In this weather?"  
  
"In any weather, I'm not bothered."  
  
"News first," said Oliver, "sparring later. What's up at the Ministry?"  
  
"Fudge is still up on top. For now. I don't know how much longer that can last. The man's getting old."  
  
"Crouch the First always thought he was a good Minister," Percy blurted, "from what I heard—"  
  
Lee stared. "Who...are you?"  
  
"Oh come now," George said, "even you can see the family resemblance."  
  
"I used to be Crouch the Second's," said Percy. "I suppose I still am. Technically?"  
  
"He'll have sold you to Bagman or whoever's supposedly in charge of this school," Oliver nodded. "Probably a bargain, on current form." Before Percy could puzzle out whether that was meant to be a compliment, Oliver pressed on, "So who'll be taking over? If he does retire?"  
  
"Crouch the First has an outside shot, but he's a bit old." Lee shrugged. "There're a couple blokes named Tiberius, I reckon anyone whose name ends in i-u-s is qualified. Pius someone, maybe. Then there's the Undersecretary for—er, who's—something. Er. Brilliant word, really. Head of the police, who—er—doesn't seem to want the job, and someone Diggory, who works for—I don't remember—"  
  
"—the Department of Negotiation with Magical Beasts," Percy and Oliver finished in unison.  
  
They stared at each other for a moment, Oliver's eyes dark and unreadable, until he almost whispered "You should spar."  
  
"Wait," said Percy, "hold on—"  
  
"The weather's not getting better, so let's fit this in before Lee has to go. George?"  
  
"At it!" said Fred.  
  
"I know you're Fred," said Lee.  
  
Fred shrugged, as George called, "Yeah?"  
  
"Just a few quick blows, so we can get out of the rain."  
  
"No one's making you watch," George pointed out.  
  
"Quite so!" Lee added. "Make John keep tabs for you. He can give you a full report."  
  
"When I catch my death of cold, it'll be your fault," John muttered.  
  
"When you catch your death of cold, you'll be so grateful to me from saving you of the ignominy of death in the arena, you won't even remember to be offended."  
  
"Oh yes, that's why I came here, to earn honor by sniffling in the rain."  
  
"To report to your talented instructor how the sparring went! Passing along the message, as it were."  
  
"Down to puns, are we? I knew you were struggling for humor, but I didn't know it was going this badly."  
  
"If only you were a woman, I could unleash the subtle might of my pickup lines."  
  
"Oy," John called, "where's Spinnet? Those two deserve each other."  
  
Oliver, who'd been watching the conversation with quiet amusement, decisively walked towards the door. "Right. Weasley and Weasley, let's get on it. Just a few quick blows. Aim for the blades."  
  
It was a struggle for Percy even to get a firm footing in the mud, and the larger size of George's mace didn't inspire him any. Still, he thought, at least he wasn't running laps.  
  
So they stood facing each other, George thwapping his mace forward. Percy, having the advantage of several inches in height, tried to hold his sword high, out of reach. "Good," Oliver called from the doorframe, "now imagine the mace has spikes on the end, and you have to slice them off."  
  
"Spikes?"  
  
"Not all of the time, if you cut one off it'll stay off even if they reappear. Magic. Shifting weapons."  
  
"Right," said Percy, rolling his eyes and digging in for another attempt. It wasn't hard to gain the advantage of height, although he had to leap backwards once or twice to dodge a few strikes from George. He tried to imagine the mace rolling over, showing off different sides, and conserving his energy to lop off different imagined strikes.  
  
"Okay, okay, that's enough," Lee called, and both brothers eagerly sprinted towards the dry door. "George, you weren't even trying!"  
  
"Was too," said George.  
  
"I don't blame you, it being your brother and all, but how am I supposed to learn anything that way?"  
  
"It goes with all that talk about honor. There are more important things than surviving every fight. Today the most important thing is getting out of the rain."  
  
"Right. I'll be off, then—"  
  
"Not so fast," said Oliver. "The other schools, how are they?"  
  
Lee looked around. "This is all of you?"  
  
"More or less. Spinnet's sick, she went to bed early—"  
  
"So, yes, that'd be all of us," said John.  
  
"Tut, tut," said Lee, "scorned your advances, has she? I'd have better taste, in her shoes."  
  
"Skip it."  
  
"The other schools?" Oliver repeated.  
  
"They're like this," said Lee, "small. The Ministry is having a hard time getting ahold of some of the escaped slaves. They had to waste wizards on fighting a  _Muggle_  uprising, if you can imagine! I think the Jorkins school is struggling financially, they might try and merge with yours again."  
  
Oliver nodded distantly.  
  
"The point is that wooden wands are going to be hard to come by. There are more and more inter-school fights as it is; people are bored of seeing the same few fights. If something's too evenly matched and they both survive, or too one-sided and too predictable for the bookies to make much profit, it's just the branches for the most part, I should think."  
  
Percy did not know what this meant, but the tone of Oliver's "great" suggested it was in fact anything but.  
  
"You're one to talk. You've got your job."  
  
"Yeah," said Oliver, "that's right."  
  
"Well, then. Till next time!" Lee waved, trooping out through the rain.  
  
"That one," John shook his head, "can catch his death of cold."


	5. Chapter 5

  
Percy's next few spars against the maces were in somewhat drier conditions, though the rain left a puddle that took a few days to dry. Oliver, good to his word, watched Jimmy's reflection in it, brusquely informing him that he twisted around too much and if he wasn't careful, his defensive equipment would slip off.  
  
Percy, in turn, got a chance to try on some of the other equipment, which in their case consisted of interchangeable shields rather than anything too specialized. Oliver would hurl the raptor halfway across the yard at him, but didn't seem to have very good aim, and nobody else did either.  
  
"What about these?" Percy dug through a box until he found a rounded shield that didn't match the others. "Am I supposed to practice against them?"  
  
Oliver sighed. "Maybe someday. You're really more likely to deal with a petiatorus, but I'm no good at throwing these raptors anywhere near the right way to be helpful."  
  
"Aren't those supposed to be the most magical?"  
  
"Yeah, but all the same, there's no helping you. I'm sorry, I should've thought that through."  
  
"It's all right."  
  
"Someone else want to give it a try?" Oliver held up the raptor. "Practice hurling these at Weasley here. And Messenger, for that matter—see, he does okay, even without petiatori to spar with."  
  
"What's in it for me?" asked JimmyorJackieorAndyorRitchie.  
  
"What's  _not_  in it for you?"  
  
"I'd just as soon work on something that'll actually be useful," he muttered.  
  
"Come on," said Oliver, "anyone want to try? If you get it more than halfway you'll have the pride of being better than me."  
  
"What are we trying?" a quiet voice came from behind him.  
  
Percy whirled to see the young woman who must have been Spinnet. Oliver rolled his eyes as he approached her, raptor at the ready. "Seeing how far and how accurately we can chuck this. Weasley needs the practice if he's fighting a petiatorus." He paused, offering the weapon to Spinnet. "So does Messenger, I assume."  
  
Raising her eyebrows, Spinnet silently took the raptor, whirled her arm back behind her head, then let it fly.  
  
"Well," said Oliver, "generally you wouldn't take that much time to—" He broke off, turning to watch it land. Not halfway, but not too far from it. "That's not bad."  
  
"Nice to do something different," she said, sprinting forward to retrieve it. "It's light!"  
  
"Yeah. Uh. Do—would you rather be reading Brutus' book? A lot of the short-sword things are relevant. And the defensives for petiatori, you could learn from those—"  
  
"I don't do reading." She shrugged. "It's all right."  
  
"Well, okay. If there's something, you know, you want to work on, you can let me know—"  
  
Spinnet flicked her free hand sideways, cutting him off, then turned and lunged forward a step before hurling the raptor again. Percy squinted at its trajectory. It was aimed higher, and wouldn't sail as far—  
  
and Messenger immediately turned, chopping it out of the air with his sword.  
  
"Yeah, maybe I'll see you at dinner," Spinnet said, sprinting back across the yard before Messenger could angrily swear at her.  
  
"Right," Oliver sighed. "Where were we?"  
  
"Don't you dare say 'about to assign me to running laps,'" said Percy. "I've had quite enough of that for one day."  
  
"You're getting faster, so it takes less time. Should do more to keep up. Maybe in the equipment. Or you could carry a mace, to add another weight, if you can't practice with the real helmets..."  
  
"I'll settle for disarming...someone, and their mace," said Percy, settling in to take on JimmyorJackieorAndyorRitchie.  
  
As far as he could tell, Fred and George were somewhat stronger than the other percullors. As for their relative strength compared to each other, he certainly couldn't tell. He wondered if even Oliver could. They were identical twins! What could distinguish them?  
  
The hint of an answer came on a blustery night, when Oliver had held up the others after dinner. They seemed to know what this meant, even Spinnet, whose dining schedule Percy had yet to figure out.  
  
Oliver was holding an envelope, distantly. Had it been delivered by the Floo? Dropping letters into the fireplace seemed to be a supremely insecure way of sending one's mail. Yet for all the newly-bulked strength in his muscles and speed around the endless laps, Percy still didn't trust himself to understand what was going on.  
  
After rereading the letter, Oliver said, "Jordan was right."  
  
"More's the pity," said John, which seemed to be an automatic reflex.  
  
"They're running low on fighters across the schools, I think. So, yes, it's an inter-school games up next. Ted Tonks has passed away, married into one of the old families and his widow's holding the memorial. But it sounds like we're all invited for the banqueting, now. Maybe just so they can show off and pretend they have the numbers."  
  
"And who's our lucky man?" Fred asked.  
  
"W—George."  
  
Percy gulped instinctively, dimly aware of Fred's reply. "Oy, you git, jumping the queue! It was my turn!"  
  
"Wasn't either," George called back. "You beat that bloke from the MacFarlans."  
  
"Like that counts, it could've been a Muggle in disguise and he wouldn't have fought any worse. Couldn't control his own shield, the git."  
  
"Whatever. Who've I got? Anyone we've heard of?"  
  
"Not really," said Oliver. "Your average janitus, big bloke."  
  
"Do I get a poster?"  
  
"I assume."  
  
"No, I mean, do you have one  _here_."  
  
"No, it's just the notification."  
  
"Well, that's rubbish. I'll have to nick one at the arena."  
  
"Nick one of me instead," said Fred, "I'm cuter."  
  
"You're not either."  
  
"My work here is done," said Oliver. "Get a good night's sleep, the rest of you. We're all Flooing off the day after next."  
  
"We're all going to watch the fight?" Percy stammered.  
  
"Yeah. It'll be good for you to get a feel for the place, see how things are done. Won't be a large occasion."  
  
"Except if they're hauling us in to stand around and look tough," said John.  
  
"Could be worse. Spinnet, this means you, be ready."  
  
Spinnet nodded, and they gradually dispersed.  
  
Oliver's warnings aside, Percy wasn't sure how he slept that night, except by telling himself  _well at least it isn't me_. He had even less idea how George got through, but then, of course, his brother had been there before. George was boisterous the next day, flicking around his mace in every direction, while Fred in contrast seemed more closed-off, sparring with John but mostly seeming to go through the motions. Well, maybe. Percy still couldn't tell.  
  
The next day passed even more slowly. Was the cook making the lunch portions smaller, or had Percy just lost his appetite? There was no telling. No one wanted to speak, until JimmyandJackieandAndyandRitchie struck up a chorus of something lewd. Percy blushed and turned away. Sure, they were more experienced than him, individually and collectively. And yet, sometimes, listening to them, he felt...relatively mature.  
  
And then they were huddling around the fireplace, and a pair of slaves Flooed through. One of them held a small can tucked under her arm. Of course, there'd have to be two of them during the Floo. People figured it prevented runaways, although Percy wasn't sure whether that had been borne out. They mixed them up, too, so ideally no two would get too familiar with each other.  
  
"Right," said the one with the can. It was surely far larger than it had to be for the trickling of powder they each needed, particularly if there were fewer fighters than in past years. "Out you go, then."  
  
"Er—" Percy began, but George had strutted forward first, enunciating "Ellis Amphitheater!" and the others followed quickly. Once he'd gotten there, Percy turned around to take in the elaborately carved mantel. Images of vines and wand trees adorned the sides, and it took the arrival of the two slaves, bringing up the rear, to snap him to attention.  
  
"Let's go," said JimmyorJackieorAndyorRitchie, "I'm hungry. This had better be good."  
  
"You're always hungry," interrupted JimmyorJackieorAndyorRitchie.  
  
"I'm not," he sulked, setting a faster pace. The others seemed to know where they were going, but Percy dragged behind, trying to take in all the ornate columns as they walked through the curved halls of the amphitheater. George was ahead of him, whispering conspiratorially with Fred, and Percy half-wanted to catch up. But somehow, the blood they shared didn't trickle quickly enough to bridge the gap between them.  
  
When the hallway seemed to curve less starkly, almost straightening out, a tunnel beckoned off to their right. Instead, the other slaves hustled into a wide pair of double doors off to the left.  
  
Percy gaped. It appeared to be a rather large dining room, the place where Crouch the Second might have eaten. No, Crouch the First, and several dozen of his nearest and dearest. "Are you sure this is the place?" he asked, forgetting for a moment how idiotic he must have sounded.  
  
It was Spinnet, of all people, who turned to give him a smile. "You see, there are perks."  
  
"Yeah, but..." He trailed off as George hustled over to a round table in the corner, sitting across from Fred with a wink as JimmyandJackieandAndyandRitchie filled in. Spinnet wound up seated next to John, both stiffening as they took their places, and Percy joined them, reaching to hold a seat for Oliver before realizing he'd shuffled off with the other slaves, their hands still bearing Bagman's name rather than the serpent on the wrist. It made Percy uncomfortable, being there with George. Shouldn't he have had something to say, something brotherly?  
  
And then, very slowly, table by table, from the Ministerial sorts up front to the slaves even farther back, food was served. Percy couldn't help but admire the quick steps, the paths unconsciously optimized for speed, and the range of motion needed to balance the spinning trays just so. It hadn't been that long ago, and while he wouldn't have put it in so many words, he had been fit for purpose in his way.  
  
The food eventually reached the back tables, and it seemed to be worth the wait. Fred was served first, in what appeared to be an honest mistake by a slave who gave George a side-eyed glance when she got to his plate. All sorts of rich breads had been baked and hot stews were available, far more palatable than anything Percy had had with Crouch the Second. Somewhat different, too, than the repetitive diets of the training school. Percy gulped down his first plate, and, with somewhat more difficulty, made it through his second serving. No wonder the cook had gone easy at lunch—none of their stomachs were used to that much rich food.  
  
As he was sipping a glass of juice, Fred scooted backwards from the table, clearing his throat. John caught Percy's eye and quickly raised a warning finger to his lip, then even more quickly replaced it.  
  
"Right, then!" called Fred. "I am very pleased to announce that I am no other than Forge Weasley, percullor extraordinaire, enchanter of...some of your hearts, I reckon. In the patently unlikely event of my premature demise tomorrow, be it advised that all well-wishers ought to lavish their sympathy upon my survivor, Gred, who—"  
  
"We know it's you," called a voice from the front of the room. "Shove off and let your little brother at it."  
  
"I do beg your pardon, I am quite his equal in size!" George called back. "And more so, though that doesn't count dimensions we typically exclude from public view."  
  
"Although you'll have the chance for a smashing view of George here tomorrow," Fred noted. "Come early! Get good seats!"  
  
And, wearing identical grins, they turned back towards the table again as chatter started up in the rest of the room. "Do I want to know what that was about?" Percy asked.  
  
"Tradition," Fred said. "Willing your riches and glory to your heirs."  
  
"Although it's not traditional when we do it," George helpfully added.  
  
"It is now," Fred shrugged, hesitating a moment before adding, "and you better ruddy well make sure you live through tomorrow, mate, as I'm not abandoning tradition any time soon."  
  
"Consider it done," said George, reaching for another bite of dessert.  
  
If their dining room had been a lavish improvement over the training school, their sleeping facilities were anything but. Another set of slaves arrived to escort the fighters down to what appeared to be little more than a crude dungeon, although, to Percy's pleasant surprise, the showers actually appeared to vary in temperature for a change.  
  
"Right," George said, "I get the cold side of the pillow, I reckon."  
  
"There is no cold side of the pillow," said John.  
  
"They're all cold sides of the pillow!"  
  
"It's a good omen," Fred declared.  
  
When Percy got to sleep, which wasn't quickly, he dreamed of vines that grew out of nowhere and doubled and redoubled, until they filled the sky.


	6. Chapter 6

John was already wide awake and pacing outside by the time Percy got up, clumsily extricating himself from the thin covers. Spinnet and George had slept in, and, after some rousing in the form of pillow thwaps from Fred, were duly awakened.  
  
"You'll want to be avoiding the muffins at breakfast," said Fred, "they're rubbish, stick with the fruit."  
  
"You've already eaten?" asked John.  
  
"Yep."  
  
"And...you're coming back for more breakfast."  
  
"Yep," Fred nodded, and there was no questioning his confidence. Mock it or not, everyone trusted Fred's advice. The slave passing out the breakfast didn't look too pleased at having him return, but then again, she didn't seem to recognize which of the identical twins she was supposed to be catering to.  
  
Then a tall man with bright hair and a handsome face came pacing along. "Right this way!" he said, correctly picking out George without hesitation. "Chop chop!"  
  
"I will, I will," George said coolly, "only you ought to set me up with a sword first."  
  
"C'mon, this way," said John, waving Percy and the others down another hallway. Percy gulped as he followed, making his way through the tunnels into the light of the stadium.  
  
It was somewhat smaller than he'd expected. No elaborate decks or anything requiring too much magic to hem in place, just rows of simple seats. The visiting fighters, apparently, were given places near the front to get a good view—or to be seen by the others. Across the stands, higher up, were wanded wizards and witches in elaborate robes, some of whom draped gold binoculars around their necks. One witch was wearing a colorful sash over her dark robes, while most of the others had remained in stately black.  
  
Then a few notes of music struck out across the stadium, and Percy whirled to spot the source—Crouch the Second had never much cared for music. Sure enough, a few small wizards were walking into the field, waving their wands to conduct instruments that played themselves. A trumpet bounced up and down; a drumstick kept time; even a fiddle had its strings chime in tune in response to the wands floating around.  
  
A dog ran out onto the field shortly behind them, howling at the drum, and Percy flinched. "Is that another omen?"  
  
"A dog?" John laughed. "Nah, just means they can splurge for an Animagus fight. Wonder whether it can pick on someone its own size—ah, here we go." A cat was slowly following suit, bristling its tail and pacing around the edge of the field.  
  
"Those are..." Percy trailed off.  
  
"Wizards. Or witches. Look, they know what they're doing." The dog began to chase the cat, which quickly circled around and bit the dog's tail, before spitting it out in distaste as the dog ran off again.  
  
"What are they in here for?"  
  
"I mean, it pays well enough. If you can master the magic and are lucky enough to have someone about your size around at the right time, it's worth a chance. Pity the ones who turn into little bugs, things too small to see." The animals butted heads, twitched ears, pounced off again.  
  
"They're not slaves," said Fred. "It takes years to learn, because you need wands at first. But everyone wants to try, just in case they're strong enough to get it right."  
  
"Yeah, it's just for laughs." The dog eventually decided to stand its ground, turning at an angle and preventing the cat from approaching.  
  
"Not always," said Fred. "Billy was—"  
  
"What about him?" Percy said eagerly.  
  
"Freedman. Learned to transform, eventually, and they chucked him in. Ran into a nutter wolf, and—I mean, I'm only repeating what someone heard from Charlie, this was before our time—"  
  
"Right," Percy said. That was the thing, wasn't it. It wasn't like all the brothers knew each other well enough to be properly family, and yet he couldn't help but fear for George already.  
  
But the dog and the cat eventually gave up chasing each other, waving their tails to the crowd before they transformed back into a pair of wizards who good-naturedly sent up blue and orange sparks with their wands, walking off the field as the music struck back up again.  
  
The wanded spectators milled around, talking things over. The witch in the sash was shaking other dignitaries' hands, while the Animagi were clapped on the back by friends and relations.  
  
"Oy," said Fred, "I need lunch."  
  
"You just ate," Percy felt compelled to point out. "...Twice."  
  
"Yes, and I'd rather fill up my stomach than spit it all back up, which is what I have half a mind to do if we stick around much longer."  
  
Before Percy could ask what he meant, John pointed out, "It's a private games."  
  
"Oh. Right you are. Well, they'd better get a move on."  
  
Percy was trying to look around to see if there was anyone he recognized—Crouch the Second? Some of the other Ministerial sorts he'd run into? But eventually, a quicker drumbeat interrupted his thoughts, as a small group of men came pacing onto the pitch.  
  
George was recognizable mostly by his mace than anything else, a heavy helmet obscuring his bright orange hair. The other fighter was similarly armored, but bore a spear and one of those rounded shields, rather than a mace. The remaining men seemed to be officials of some sorts, making their way over to the sides with their wands. A flash of white light issued forth from the first wand, and then the weapons flared.  
  
As George charged forward, spikes blossomed from the top of the mace, and his shield shrunk away. The other fighter retaliated by doing something with the round shield, then hurling it across the arena. The disk sailed through the air, but George batted it down. He chased after it, but the other fighter—Jeffy someone, to hear the crowd howl—was quicker, diving to pick it up and fending George off with a spear. Quickly, George dodged, but his legs were vulnerable, and the first blood seemed to go to Jeffy, who was still picking himself up.  
  
George backed off, growing his shield again as his mace shrunk into a club. Regaining his strength, he stiffened into place and took a few swings at Jeffy, back and forth. Jeffy's armor was thick, but his spear was thin, and it was tough for him to get a blow in edgewise (or in any other direction). So he backed off, readjusting his shield.  
  
George pursued, spikes at the ready, and that time Jeffy hurled up his shield in a flash to rebuff the mace. One of the spikes snapped off, and the crowd cheered.  
  
"He'll be fine," Fred called, "those are weak—"  
  
Were they really that much slower than they had been when they started, only minutes before? They seemed to Percy to have already lost a step, facing each other more warily. George seemed to keep his shield at a constant size while various spikes flickered in and out of the mace, daring Jeffy to come any closer. The other man instead charged to the side, coming at George from behind only to immediately dodge the falling mace. He countered with his spear, poking it through, and then battering at George with the round shield again. George whirled, his attention split, and the spear caught him in the back.  
  
"C'mon," Fred roared, while the crowd cheered on Jeffy all the more. George recoiled, kicking at his opponent. A crude action, but nevertheless one Jeffy had not been expecting. Again, the shield fell from his hands; again, he clambered to reclaim it while George caught his breath, inasmuch as he could—the bleeding did not immediately clench up, like it had the first time around.  
  
At Jeffy's next approach, George took off with surprising speed, rounding him and swinging again with the mace. But Jeffy's armor stood up to the challenge, and he used his shield to counter George in the air before swinging down with his spear to give George another wound, mirroring the first.  
  
That time, George fell to the ground, and seemed to gesture something with his hand. The fiddle riffed out a simple rhythm, and Jeffy backed away.  
  
The wanded spectators began sending sparks up into the sky—some green, others red. "C'mon, c'mon!" Fred yelled, which did not strike Percy as the most opportune moment for cheering—Jeffy was pacing and George unmoving—but he supposed there were strategic nuances he'd yet to master.  
  
Then a bolt of fire came blazing forth, from the witch in the sash, immediately dissipating into the sky. The crowd cheered, Fred all the more, and Jeffy dropped his weapons. The officials began hustling to George's side, waving their wands—within a few moments, he'd sat up and waved. One of them cast a few spells at Jeffy, who smiled, and another gave him what seemed to be a branch sliced from a tree, the leaves still green. He waved it to the crowd, and together, they slowly walked off the field.  
  
"That was it?" Percy gasped. It had been so quick.  
  
"That's it," John said briskly. "So, you see that? He survived—George did—obviously. The other bloke won, though, that's why he gets the branch."  
  
"Er...yeah. Sure."  
  
"As long as there's no one else today, keeps it moving along nice and quick." John rolled his eyes. "The big shots can Apparate back and get in another half-day's work."  
  
"And what about us?"  
  
"Oh the Floo isn't that slow. But if we stall, maybe Oliver won't make us run laps."  
  
"I wouldn't get your hopes up," Spinnet muttered.  
  
"I didn't know you were part of this conversation."  
  
"C'mon, then," said Fred, and they trickled out of their seats, slowly making their way to the fireplace. Very slowly, in fact, as three different witches struck up conversations with Fred, complimenting his strength and talent, before one by one realizing that George would not have had time to transport himself out of the arena, take off his weapons, and run up into the stands.  
  
By the time they eventually made it to the fireplace, John shooting Fred an icy glare, George was already there, looking healthy. Fred called over something that sounded like "You git, had me worried for a minute there," before they hugged, and after they broke it off, George gave Percy a smile. "So? Have it all figured out, now?"  
  
"I had no idea what was going on," Percy admitted, "so I couldn't be too worried for you. More so than when I came in, anyway."  
  
"Oh, I like the sounds of that. Forget all your clerking and book-learning, you really don't have a clue. It's brilliant."  
  
They Flooed back—"Bagman school!"—and nobody made them run laps.  
  
"Well done, you," said Oliver, nodding at George, who smiled.  
  
"Er," said Percy. "That was...er..."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"What I mean to say is I think I do need to read this book of yours and figure out what's going on."  
  
"Oh, way to ruin the mood," said George.  
  
"There'll be time enough for that," said Oliver. "You go on and celebrate."  
  
"Can't. Fred here has been flirting with all the eligible women."  
  
"They seemed to prefer the other bloke," Fred sighed. "Can't imagine why."  
  
"Oh, let him have them," said George. "He'll never be satisfied. Git."


	7. Chapter 7

It took a day or two for Percy to piece together that, in fact, George had been in danger of his life. Even remembering his earlier conversations, he couldn't quite guess how much the possibility had scared Fred. But, nevertheless, the hostess—Madam Tonks—had used the sparks as a way to gauge the mood of the crowd, before sending out the fire as a sign that he should be Healed.  
  
Coincidentally, that was just about how long it took for Fred and George to consider that, perhaps, they weren't that much better than the other percullors after all. Instead, the argument went, they ought to join the others by becoming known as "Freddie" and "Georgie," to match the disyllabic trend. George had been easy to convince. Fred was more skeptical. How were they going to swap names? "Greddy and Forgie just don't sound right at all!"  
  
But, swayed by George's sentiment, he'd come around. "You lot in? Perc-y, I suppose you don't have much choice. Johnny?"  
  
"We're not percullors," said John.  
  
"Too right you aren't. Missing a trick, innit? You could be Percy the Percullor. It'd sound neat."  
  
"I'd be rubbish."  
  
"Come on," said George. "Johnny."  
  
"Oh, why not," said John(ny). "Good to change your name every once in a while. Freshen things up."  
  
Percy, having at last built up a certain adequacy at laps, instead turned to Brutus' book in the mornings, before sparring in the afternoons against the stake, or whoever else was within range. It made him feel awkward the first few times, pacing over to Oliver's room to borrow it while the others were outside. But Oliver pressed it on him. "I invite them week after week, but nobody else wants to learn from it. You're the best thing that's happened to them, really, as I don't feel the need to keep nagging at them quite as much. Just as long as someone wants it."  
  
"Do they even know how to read?" Percy asked. "Maybe they need something easier, you know, to get started with."  
  
"I've offered to teach them, just with something practical! And it never works. But here, chapters three and four are the ones you want to start with."  
  
Paging through, Percy quickly saw why. The first chapter was full of brash epigrams for how percullors like George or Fred could best deal with petiatori, beginning with illustrations of men in maces thwapping the flying raptors out of the sky. The second, somewhat longer, contained advice for percullors fighting against janiti, the fighters with rounded shields like Jeffy. A blocky hand had scribbled in the margins, with crossouts every other page and distorted doodles wherever they could fit. Some spilled over to the edges of the pages, so that they could only be seen when the book was closed and viewed head-on.  
  
Then came chapter three. As promised, it was a guide for percullors handling saecutors like himself, and Percy had to piece it together backwards. What were saecutors doing, that Brutus was trying to defend against? Slicing off mace spikes? Taking advantage of their height, raising their shields? Trusting to the innate magic in the short swords?  
  
For that matter, Percy thought, squinting at another paragraph, could he be sure there had ever been such a person as Brutus at all? On one page the writer seemed to be addressing elite volunteers who'd been trained in ministerial life. "Do not waste energy. Fight as if you were discoursing in the Wizengamot with a hoarse voice, and make every stroke count." The next, he'd be mocking slender petiatori who were scarcely taller than the excitable women who flocked to them after a victory. Maybe it had been just one man putting together various pieces of advice he'd overheard from very different fighters—that would make almost as much sense. Besides, the others seemed to imply that percullors fought janiti most often, so how would one person have learned so much about fighting all three?  
  
He spent so much time trying to make sense of Brutus' practical advice, and was still so exhausted after the physical training, that he almost forgot that Oliver had nagged him about reading the fourth chapter as well. Again, it started out in an elevated register, addressing fighters who seemingly cared about the military campaigns of the day, whether that was subduing the centaurs in the west or the rogue elven armies up north. Something or other about how fighters ought to be a good example for soldiers, someone they could learn from.  
  
And then, someone quite different seemed to be talking. A nervous man, knowing all about the omens slaves whispered to each other, absent any other magic. "Perhaps you know that a wizard who is killed will be given the chance to return and haunt the world. Never do such a thing! For the old slaves know well that a slave who does not accept death will be chained forever, cursed to serve his master in this world without end. Just like a soldier killed by goblins who chooses to haunt the earth will never see the light of day again, but endure forever in the darkest caves. Rather, you must face your death without fear. Only then will you be made complete in virtue."  
  
"This," said Percy, "is rubbish!"  
  
"Now you're coming along," Freddie cheered. "How long did that take you to come up with?"  
  
"Who's to say that dying makes you virtuous? If you're properly dead, you're not talking to anyone, are you? And whoever heard of a haunting in goblin caves?"  
  
"Brutus," Oliver said mildly.  
  
"Do you really think there was such a person? Just one man, writing all this advice?"  
  
"I'm not sure. Does it matter?"  
  
Percy hesitated but finally said, "Yes."  
  
"How so?"  
  
"Well, let's say it really was just one man. Then, obviously, he wrote it all before he died—oh don't you start, Fred!"  
  
"It's Freddie," said Freddie. "Please."  
  
"All I'm saying is, there could be hauntings, or he seems to think so anyway. So if someone, still an active fighter, was to write all this down, trying to give other people advice, he'd have wanted it to be read."  
  
"There are...circumstances...in which people retire from active fighting. Manumission or otherwise," said Oliver. "But please, go on."  
  
"It doesn't make sense, that he'd want everyone else to know his secrets, rather than keeping them to himself. So he could win."  
  
"Well," Oliver said, smiling, "maybe he thought that helping everyone fight well—beautifully—was the most important thing he could have done."  
  
"More important than survival?"  
  
"One presumes."  
  
"You're impossible," said Percy.  
  
"Do you have any better ideas?"  
  
"No, for some reason we don't have any books about people I'm likely to actually fight!" He thrust the book back into Oliver's hands and stomped across the yard, purposefully turning his back as he rummaged through the box for a sword. By the time he'd picked it up and was swinging at the stake, Freddie had joined him with a secretive smile.  
  
The next morning, Percy made a point of not looking at the book, even running laps for a little while before sparring with JimmyandJackieandAndyandRitchie. By lunchtime, he was bored. At least as a clerk he'd been doing useful work. Someone had benefited from his tedious day-to-day life. Who got anything out of him running laps?  
  
When he did at last work up the nerve to approach Oliver a few days later, Oliver didn't turn to look him in the eye, but he did mention, "You know, you might be right. About there being more than one person writing those first few chapters."  
  
"Do you really believe that?"  
  
"We can't know for sure. You  _might_  be. And if there's more than one person, well, that's all the more reason to be reading it, isn't there? Different people would have different pieces of advice." He forced a smile.  
  
"...Right," said Percy. "Thanks."  
  
That time around, he began reading at the beginning. Well, percullors fought petiatori. Maybe there'd be something he could learn, too.


	8. Chapter 8

"Would you ever want to learn to read, though?" Percy asked. He'd spent an hour reading and rereading the same paragraph about janiti shields until his eyes glazed over. It didn't help that whoever'd been scrawling in the margins had very untidy handwriting, and their loops often interfered with "Brutus'" painstaking type. "Not this, I mean. Just anything."  
  
"No," said Georgie.  
  
"Well, say you were set free and had to get a job in the real world."  
  
"I'll deal with that when the time comes."  
  
"What about to learn what's going on in the outside world, now?"  
  
"We have Jordan to sneak in and tell us that. Or the letters saying who's about to fight. Nothing important. Look, we can't all work for ministry blokes."  
  
"I'm just saying—"  
  
"Even if I could, who'd want a slave to read?"  
  
"Yeah," said JimmyorJackieorAndyorRitchie, "they don't trust us, they'd think we'd send messages to Harry Potter or some sort."  
  
"Who's that?" asked Percy.  
  
"Oh, he's a manumitted petiatorus from the MacFarlan school. He's leading a slave rebellion, way down south."  
  
Before Percy could mention that he'd never heard of such a threat, the rest of JimmyandJackieandAndyandRitchie cut in. "He was never a fighter. He's just a normal slave!"  
  
"No, he has a tattoo on his head! It's an omen."  
  
"He made his own wand from a magic tree."  
  
"No, the rogue elves made it for him. He's in league with them and he's leading the uprising."  
  
"No, he's a Muggle. He can't make wands, but he leads the elven army anyway."  
  
"I heard he was an Animagus. He doesn't even  _need_  a wand."  
  
"And Fudge is scared of him, which is why he's going to resign."  
  
"No, he has Fudge under a hex. He's only leaving him in place because the alternatives are worse."  
  
"He's like a centaur, only he's half wizard, half elf, and half goblin!"  
  
"That makes three halves."  
  
"It's magic, innit?"  
  
Percy raised his eyebrows. "I thought you  _didn't_  get news from outside."  
  
"Oh, all the other fighters know about him," said the one who had last spoken. Jackie? "Word travels."  
  
Johnny, behind them, was shaking his head out of sight of the others. Percy tried to give a diplomatic shrug. "Well. If you'd ever like to learn to read, let me know."  
  
"Maybe," he smiled. "I know a little bit. And I'll get to practice when the new announcement comes in."  
  
Percy raised his eyebrows. "Is that due any time soon?"  
  
"Should be, yeah. Jordan mentioned that Lestrange was fading—the sister of the woman who hosted it last time. If she kicks it, her husband should be rich enough to put on a fight of some kind."  
  
"I...didn't remember," Percy admitted. Lee's last visit had been memorable mostly for him getting into a shouting match with Johnny over something trivial, perhaps as unimportant as the impromptu name change.  
  
Jackie gave him an appraising glance, as if to ask why he was a particularly reliable teacher, before wandering off.  
  
In fact, once he'd made up his mind to disregard some of Brutus' more outlandish tangents somewhat, Percy found himself digging into the other marginalia. Whoever had scribbled a few pages crammed in after chapter four might have been a house slave, or even a volunteer, with neater handwriting than the large, blocky letters of the few paragraphs that came wedged in after that. Then there were the diagrams—sketches showing the best way to run around, cutting off the fleet petiatori. It was helpful enough, trying to practice turning quickly and pivoting his way around—and at least, much more entertaining than monotonous laps. All the same, the diagram felt lacking.  
  
"The wanded want us to fight well, don't they?" he asked. "I mean, we're putting on a show for them. They want to see some quality."  
  
"Of course," said Oliver.  
  
"Then why not enchant these pages? Something so they can move like real magic books, we'd learn better from them."  
  
Oliver laughed. "You're one of the first people who actually tries to read it. Most don't bother, as you've seen."  
  
"But you hold onto it."  
  
"I think it's useful."  
  
"And—I mean, I can't tell, George had a scare last time around. How do your—how do we rank, in the grand scheme of things? Does it work?"  
  
"Not perfectly."  
  
"But you stick with it."  
  
"I would say you were free to take my advice or leave it..."  
  
"But it's not like we're at liberty to do much of anything. Well, thanks anyway, I—"  
  
Percy broke off. It wasn't like squinting over pages was exactly a pleasant reminder of his old life; there hadn't been anything particularly fun about reading, before, it was just something to be done. And yet, Brutus' was, for all its strangeness, a proper book. Not the sort of things slaves got to read, at least not the ones with names seared into their hands. No, even Oliver was technically normal chattel, but he kept it with him.  
  
Maybe it was better without magic, after all. There were enough weapons thrown through the air, enough people running around, that Percy could envy having something of his own that would stay still.  
  
Halfway through lunch one day he found himself reaching for seconds. JimmyandJackieandAndyandRitchie were fiercely arguing over whether you could predict a master's leniency based on his wand wood (Jimmy: beechwielders would release you most quickly; Jackie: they were all just as bad; Andy: no master would be so foolhardy as to simply let his slave know what sort of wand he wielded because it was secret magic; Ritchie: pear was most trustworthy). Freddie and Georgie were imagining all sorts of outlandish theories about what happened if you tried to pluck hair from the mane of a lion Animagus (assuming you managed to survive the encounter; who knew what wanded fighters could do?). Johnny was hurriedly leaving the table. Spinnet was approaching. And it struck Percy that he had not once found it strange that someone else was cooking and serving him food, not in days or weeks, maybe.  
  
He had eaten plenty, and though he was still taller than his brothers, had filled out a frame that was still, after all, on its feet most of the day. And yet he had not cooked. He could remember how, given the chance. Could adjust to whatever quirks of that particular stove there might be, without asking, without daring to intrude on anyone else's business. Instead, he followed wherever someone asked him to go.  
  
Perhaps not even Oliver, whose practice ideas were less and less of the "how about you run some more laps" form and more of a "did you see on page seven, where Brutus has drawn this, do you want to try pacing after Johnny and see how long it takes you to tire?" No, he waited for the summons, sent into the fireplace and picked up by Jackie who, good to his word, picked it up and tried to read it one day at supper.  
  
"Well?" Freddie irritably asked, after another squint. "What's it say?"  
  
"'Snot fair," Jackie muttered, handing it over to Oliver.  
  
" _What's_  not fair?" Freddie blurted. "They haven't—"  
  
"You three," Jackie waved, "all have the same second name. And, and  _you_  two  _changed_  your names, so how'm I supposed to know who's who?"  
  
"Ssh," said Oliver, folding the note back up and giving Percy what passed for a smile. "Your first fight."  
  
It wasn't the most encouraging of tones, but then again, the implication was that there'd be more than one, and Percy supposed that beat the alternative.


	9. Chapter 9

Rain fell that night, and Percy didn't think he'd ever get to sleep, listening to it pour down. There were no windows. He supposed nobody would want weak points in the walls. Even wooden swords, in strong-enough hands, had their dangers. All the same, even if there was no way to see flashes of lightning, he could hear the persistent storm just beyond.  
  
To his surprise, he did get to sleep eventually, but he was dazed the next day. People's voices seemed quiet—maybe they weren't talking to him?—and practicing in the mud felt like an entirely different exercise. Everyone took turns flinging the raptor at him, and all he could do was run one way or another. To dive low was to sink into the mud; to jump, to risk landing on his face moments later. He could buy moments of time, but what did they amount to?  
  
He tried to read Brutus' book one more time—had the handwritten section scrawled in after chapter four said something about the weather?—but fell asleep with it open on his bed. He woke up shortly after and thought it was day, making him even more tired, but once he'd tested the door realized that it had been a light sleep in the darkness of night. Closing the book and setting it at the foot of the bed, Percy settled into an uneasy sleep.  
  
He slept through breakfast and was irritated to find that everyone else had eaten without him. "You get the fancy meal tonight," Johnny pointed out.  
  
Percy's mind trundled slowly to the foregone conclusion. "So do you."  
  
Johnny shrugged. "Perks of our glamorous life, I guess."  
  
When they Flooed over, Percy recognized the name of Ellis Amphitheater even before seeing the elaborate vines of the fireplace through which they exited. "Wait a tick. We were here last time, but it's a different host?"  
  
"Of course," said Johnny. "Remember? Wandeds, Apparating all over."  
  
"Right," Percy rolled his eyes. "Let's hope the food's as good. I'm starving."  
  
"Oh, buck up," said Georgie. "After all the nutritious porridge you've had, day after day?"  
  
"Believe it or not, yes," he muttered. "C'mon."  
  
For all his nerves, it felt good to feel his brothers and fellows following him around for a change. He figured out the right door by process of elimination—it was the only one on the far side of the hallway, with noise perking out of it—and stepped through, quickly followed by the others.  
  
Again, they sat in the back of the room, but that time there were several more strangers coming by before the food even arrived. Percy stiffened as one of them approached with a strange device he didn't recognize—it gave a magical burst of light as the man pointed it at his face, and Percy squeezed his eyes shut in terror.  
  
"That's no good," the man grunted.  
  
"Oy!" Percy interrupted. Didn't he know who he was talking to? None of them would have been there without him.  
  
"Easy, now," said someone else. Percy looked up to find Lee standing by, arguing with the other man. Only in contrast to the stranger could Percy see how young Lee actually looked. When he came by as their intermittent contact with the outside world, authority lent his voice unmerited decades. "I could've sold you pictures ages ago. Don't scare the bloke, for crying out loud."  
  
"Oh I'm not giving you any more money," said the man sulked. "You and whoever your friends are have quite enough as things stand, I reckon."  
  
"You don't fancy a wager, then?" he smiled, hopefully.  
  
"Shove off, this's one-sided. Poor bloke doesn't know what he's at." He slapped Percy on the back of the chair, and Percy scooted in, uncomfortably. "Give us a good show, eh?" And, snickering, he paced off.  
  
"Ignore him," said Lee, "he's just in a sulk. I suspect Lestrange owed him some money."  
  
Percy glanced around. "When's dinner?" The slaves were already serving the witches and wizards in front.  
  
"In a bit. Shall we see if we can get Oliver to cart some of this around? Things would move faster."  
  
"Let's not," he sighed.  
  
"Suit yourself," said Lee.  
  
At least by the time dinner got to Percy, there was no one to confuse him with. Freddie and Georgie, despite the familial resemblance, deferred to him, and he eagerly dove into the stew. A second and even a third helping followed shortly after. At least after the initial serving, the kitchen slaves seemed to mill about the back of the room, not going back in any order but dishing up seconds randomly.  
  
A smaller man—Terry, was that his name?—stood up on a chair shortly afterwards and began raving about how, in the unlikely event of his death, his wife should be taken under the protection of a kitchen slave of some talent. "Go on then. You make a speech," Georgie nudged Percy.  
  
"What? No." Percy blushed. "I haven't got anything to give away."  
  
"More's the pity," said Freddie. "We really ought to find you a wife."  
  
Percy, already blushing, did not react.  
  
"After you win tomorrow," Georgie pointed out, "the women will flock to you. With our good looks and your enchanting...er...book-learning. Thing."  
  
"Yeah," Percy said, nodding, hoping it would get them to shut up. "I'm sure that's how that works."  
  
Johnny cast him a wry look as they made their way down to the dungeons, but said nothing.  
  
Perhaps the storm had been helpful in its way, tiring Percy out, because he thought that without the unusual levels of exhaustion fear had built up in him, he would never have slept at all. How lucky for the mere fighters that wands could Apparate people, that events could be organized quickly, that they didn't have to wait so long with that fear paralyzing them, how lucky...


	10. Chapter 10

"How are you already up?" Percy groaned, as Johnny paced by outside.  
  
"I'm older than you young slugabeds, I don't need as much time to lay about."  
  
"I don't think you are, actually." Though maybe the long time it took him to make a guess was undermining his own argument. Some more sleep wouldn't hurt. Maybe...no.  
  
He climbed out of the crude bed and had soon made his way down to breakfast. "The muffins," Freddie declared, after Percy had made a point of waving one in front of his face as he picked it up, "are  _still_  rubbish."  
  
"I don't think so," Percy repeated, biting in. "Hrm. This is actually good! You git, you're just trying to scare us off so you can have them all for yourself!"  
  
"I would never...! All right, I would do such a thing, but I didn't, I swear. How can you not tell the difference?"  
  
"Well, it's better than oatmeal, isn't it?"  
  
"Not really. And it's nowhere near as good as the bacon."  
  
"What bacon?"  
  
"Ministerial games have proper bacon. You'll be wanting some."  
  
Percy raised his eyebrows and polished off the muffin.  
  
"Are we past due or what?" asked Johnny. "Seems like there hasn't been a big games for a while."  
  
"Well, we'd need something to celebrate. An adorable little heir of the Minister to be born, but you know, I'm not sure our esteemed head of state can get up to much impregnating at his age," said Freddie. "Maybe he has a birthday coming up? Ask Jordan."  
  
"I'll pass, thanks."  
  
"You'll pass me the fruit is what you'll do," said Freddie, and Johnny acquiesced.  
  
Just as Percy was hesitating whether to ask for it next, that handsome man came striding through the door. "Percy?" he called.  
  
"That'd be me."  
  
"Hullo!" he waved. "I'm Ludo Bagman. It's a pleasure to meet you!"  
  
"It..." What was he supposed to say? Something honorable, something sincere? "At your service."  
  
He rose from the table, conscious of the others' eyes watching him. If they threw him off, how could he possibly stand up under the gaze of the spectators? Twitching, Percy made his way forward.  
  
"Go get 'em, Perce," said Georgie—or Freddie, he wasn't perfect at telling them apart sight unseen.  
  
"Perc _y_ ," one corrected. That sounded more like Freddie. Giving a nod, but not turning, he followed out the door.  
  
"We're going to see about getting you your weapons!" Bagman chirped.  
  
"Yeah? Er...good."  
  
They walked around the outside hallway again, and then into another room, which had low ceilings and was lit by a few torches on either wall. The air smelled of smoke. "You're a saecutor, if I hear tell?"   
  
It took Percy a minute to parse that. Bagman had pronounced the jargon in a slow, drawn-out accent. "Yes." Remembering his brothers' strained relationship with the truth, on occasion, he felt compelled to add, "If you'd heard wrongly, would there be enough equipment for me?"  
  
"Oh?" Bagman paused, as if the question had never occurred to him. "Surely. We'd have sent someone for it."  
  
"Right."  
  
"Here's your sword," said Bagman, nodding at a short sword on the opposite table that neither touched.  
  
"Warm for fat, cold for vital organs," Percy said, reciting what he'd learned from Brutus' book. Apparently the difference in temperature was enough to be immediately sensible, though he'd never gotten to practice.  
  
"Basic armor, here."  
  
Slowly, Percy tried to put it on, mirroring the diagrams he'd seen. He knew better than to ask Bagman for help—no master trusted a slave who didn't look like he knew what he was doing. But how could that possibly fit? It wasn't like there were right-hand and left-hand versions of the various sleeve guards he slipped on, were there?  
  
Hesitantly, he crossed the room to pick up the sword. It felt like a cool piece of metal. No help there.  
  
"Oh, and your helmet!" Bagman waved a large, pale hand towards an equally large metal helmet, sides welded together through some strange craft or another.  
  
"Yeah," said Percy. How was that supposed to work? Everything he'd read made reference to some sort of toggle—whether on the thrown raptor, wielded mace, protective shield, or that bulky and unfamiliar helmet.  
  
"Try it on!" Bagman offered. "There should be a flap, hanging down over your neck."  
  
Percy dubiously did so, the weight—on top of the armor he already had tightened on—feeling an impediment to getting any serious fighting done. But, it fit neatly enough, and the flap duly fell into place. Sure enough, a narrow groove ran from side to side, with a metallic bead sitting in the middle.  
  
"Can you hear me?" he called, through the thick metal. There were eye-holes to see out of, but the helmet otherwise obscured his face.  
  
Distantly, Bagman's voice replied, "Yes, of course! Now slide that around."  
  
Percy raised his arm, craning it to keep the guard out of the way, and slid the bead back and forth. Sure enough, the closer the helmet squeezed in on to his face—paradoxically—the less weight he seemed to feel, and the farther away he pushed it, the more it sunk into him, and the more he could sniff the smoke in the air.  
  
How on earth was he supposed to have any idea what to do with those, never mind have time to control them during a fight? When he got through, he decided, he was going to thwap Oliver for never giving him any advice. No, better, ask Bagman why they had nothing worthwhile to practice with.  
  
Bagman was gesturing him out the door. Through the eye circles, which constricted his peripheral vision, Percy saw Bagman's hand flash into view. A blank mass of skin—no owner's name tattooed, no snake on the wrist. He was a freeman, and how could Percy question him?  
  
He paced out to the arena. Untold numbers had come and gone—but mostly come—before them. He wondered how many would have desperately rather rushed off to the bathroom one more time. Why wouldn't they? What worse could be done to them?  
  
And then he caught sight of a small man who must have been Terry, his frame and armor both smaller than Percy's own. He might have been unrecognizable, even had Percy met him, the eyeholes were so narrow.  
  
Bagman vanished, and Percy gave a start before remembering that he must have Apparated. There were the officials, gathered around, and he was supposed to wait for the trumpet—no, the burst of light—  
  
There.  
  
The helmet, Percy decided, must surely have been magic. How else to explain the dullness of the roar that surrounded him? The spectators should have been mad, screaming, even amplifying their voices through magic could they choose. And yet, there was little he could hear. Instinctively, he ran backwards, as the petiatorus chased after him, raptor at the ready. It did not seem to be made out of wood, but rather a strange, bright metal that hovered too long in the air—controlled by magic, no doubt—and then crashed off Percy's arm guard. Whirling in shock, he charged forward with his sword. His opponent came barreling towards him but veered away at the last moment. Percy's momentum carried him forward, and there was no chance to strike.  
  
Instead, he caught his breath, reaching up to his chin to experiment with the toggle. The helmet squeezed in, sitting lighter and, he hoped, making him lighter on his feet. He took off at a rush, and sure enough, was quickly able to catch up to the man who held the raptor aloft. Briefly. And then sliced it down. That time, it hit Percy's leg as his sword was grazing his opponent's back; the latter whirled away, bringing the raptor with him. Or was it just gliding after him through the air? Percy couldn't see.  
  
Okay, so he'd have to adjust his leg shield. No, no time, just running. He was good at running, he thought briefly, and it wasn't like he had enough visibility for the fact that he was running in front of so many people to make a difference. But all of a sudden, he felt himself panting, the helmet beguilingly thick. He reached for the toggle again, and as it weighed him down, only just jerked his hand away before the raptor went whizzing by once more, clanging off the metal and veering out of sight. That time, taking a minute to catch his breath anyway, he could make out the distant crowd.  
  
Grasping his sword in his hand—after all the changing weight of the helmet, he needed it to feel substantial, enough to do something with—he steadied himself, preparing to knock the weapon out of his adversary's hands. But no, he wasn't facing a mace, but rather something that could fly at him from any direction. He'd have to approach. How was he supposed to stand a chance?  
  
 _Though some types fight each other more often than others, all the types are equally balanced,_  Brutus had written,  _with their own strengths and weaknesses. Slave-owners need to gamble, and for that, they want a plausibly fair fight._  
  
If Brutus had even been alive at all. What was a stupid book going to do in the middle of a fight?  
  
Percy charged forward, but immediately jumped to his left to dodge the returning raptor. That time, it sunk into the ground and seemed to fidget there, whirring around through some unknowable magic. His momentum broken, Percy panted again. There was no way forward, not with the helmet he barely knew how to use restricting his view, not with the raptor able to strike him down from behind. He couldn't see anything, not least how he could stand a chance.  
  
Fine.  
  
Nothing left to lose, least of all shame. Flicking the toggle off to the side, Percy pulled the helmet off his head entirely, hurling it down to the dust of the arena, and trapping the raptor inside. A few satisfying clicks of metal on metal told him he'd succeeded, and then he was off again, the brightnesses in the crowd too blurry to be faces. They were screaming, cursing, making noise, and he was, for once, in pursuit of an unarmed man. Dipping his sword down, he lashed out, that time striking the corner of a whirling elbow.  
  
But not quickly enough to fell the short arm. The chase reversed, Percy retracing his steps across the sand, until the dodging target reached the helmet. He'd have to bend down to pick up the raptor, and that would give Percy time to strike. He checked his approach, waiting, only to find the helmet rammed into his chest—positioned between him and the petiatorus, it formed a shield, blocking him from getting closer. Then it withdrew a few inches. Okay, he'd grabbed the raptor, but what...  
  
And then the helmet was flying off at an angle. Arms trained to hurl a smaller weapon could still produce a decent amount of force. Raptor in hand, Percy's opponent took off in another direction entirely.  
  
Did the helmet matter, or could he fight just as well without the weight? Hesitating, Percy edged closer to the helmet—  
  
and fell towards it, as the raptor caught him in the side.  
  
He'd had the wind knocked out of him before, but never with so much noise around him. It was the lowering of their voices—applause, and not for him—that told him something was wrong. He had to stand, no, to reach for his helmet to prop him up, not feasible. His standards dropping with his blood, Percy squinted to see someone approaching through the sand.  
  
Was it the magic in the weapons, to leave his hands under his control, or did his numb gratitude extend to some power beyond the wands in the seats? He couldn't tell. But it wasn't like he wanted to signal the end of the fight. Any hope of a contestable fight was already over, his body trapping the raptor more effectively than any helmet could. So, reveling in that brief freedom, Percy raised his finger.  
  
A wave of color swept through the stands, and Percy thought he smelt smoke. Then one of the officials—what did they do? It had once again felt too short to drag them into the proceedings—was pacing over, pointing a wand at him. Percy winced as the raptor jerked out of him, falling motionless on the ground. And then, his skin was creeping forward, papering the wound over.  
  
"Where else did he get you?" the official asked, politely.  
  
"Er. My leg?" It  _had_  been that short, and yet the memory was difficult to grasp.  
  
Nodding, the official cast another spell at his leg, which seemed to chill for a moment. It was still bruised, but Percy found he could stand, and picked his helmet up, tucking it under his arm. Another official had given Terry the same sort of branch George's opponent had received, and he waved it almost playfully as he made his way to the back tunnel. Gingerly, as if testing the sand with each step, Percy followed along.  
  
His hands shook as he took off his equipment, and removing the leg guard seemed to bend his leg out at the wrong angle; no matter where he set his foot back on the ground, it was stiff and tired. Terry removed his much more quickly and ducked out of the room, as Percy fumbled with the arm shield before dropping it onto the table with a satisfying thud.  
  
When he walked out of the room, Oliver was there, eyes bright. "You took your helmet off," he said, almost gasping.  
  
"I'm alive," Percy said. He felt like spreading the news.  
  
"I'd noticed."  
  
"Well, so had I," Percy said—really, what did Oliver think he was doing—and he flapped his arms open for a hug, or in incredulity.  
  
Oliver slipped in, returning the hug, and Percy was standing flush with life, needing someone to grip onto. Just as quickly, Oliver pulled away, but he still looked amazed. "You took your helmet off," he repeated.  
  
"Yeah, I'd heard," Percy said, stepping into the hallway, if only to test his legs.  
  
"You don't understand." Oliver followed. "That was brilliant. They'd never seen anything like it before. Of course you were going to survive, win or lose, it was never in doubt—"  
  
"Well, someone might have warned me!"  
  
"None of us had—we could see your face, do you understand that? You were out there, not sure if you were going to live or die, and you let us  _see_  you, all the way through. See, you were brave. You  _do_  get it, after all."  
  
 _No I don't_ , Percy wanted to say, but after all the rush of the day the words fell dead on his lips. After all of that, he didn't want to let Oliver down.


	11. Chapter 11

It was a few days later that, suddenly and without any apparent consultation, Fred and George stopped responding to their lengthened nicknames. Oliver, who had no idea what was going on, at first took it poorly. "Oy! Freddie! Get these boxes out. Let's go!" he yelled, to no response. "Georgie, tell your brother to knock it off."  
  
So they loitered in the kitchen, tilting their chairs back to see how far an angle they could make before crashing over, until Johnny figured it out. "Fred? George?" he called skeptically, his keen voice cutting through the creaking door.  
  
"Thought you'd never ask," George grinned, almost crashing out of his chair as he jogged outside.  
  
After that JimmyandJackieandAndyandRitchie decided they'd quite like to be James, Jack, Andrew, and/or Richard. It was a nice change of pace, anyway. John seemed more than happy to lose the extra syllable. "Keeps things fresh," he said and shrugged as he poked open another box.  
  
"How about it?" Fred asked, twirling his mace. "Perce?"  
  
"I don't know," Percy shrugged awkwardly, "do I get a say in the matter?"  
  
"Oh, don't tell me you're changing your name. They've only just got the posters set!"  
  
Percy turned, blinking to take in Lee. "When did you get here?"  
  
"Not early enough to keep up."  
  
"It's across the board," John called. "We've all changed our names. Get to work."  
  
"You all may have changed your names, but it's Perc...y...?"  
  
Percy nodded.  
  
"Percy here who's the talk of the town. Very impressive stunt you pulled, there."  
  
"I almost died."  
  
"Well, you gave them something to talk about, anyway. Though you left so quickly! I hear tell some of the spectating ladies were very, ahem, disappointed."  
  
"Yeah, go on, Perce," Fred clapped him on the back, "stick around a bit longer."  
  
Percy, staring at the ground, was spared from having to come up with a retort by Lee asking, "Wait, what are we calling him?"  
  
"It's Percy, it's Percy," said George. "But seriously, Lee can help you around. If you go early to some of the other games, you can meet some of your fans."  
  
"That's really all right," he said through clenched teeth.  
  
"Doesn't have to be that," said Lee, flicking a rogue dreadlock aside. "Bagman and that lot like to see you kept comfortable, putting on a good show. If there's something you want me to bring in, let me know."  
  
"I want—"  
  
He wanted to be like Fred and George, be able to complete his family's thoughts without pausing to explain. He wanted to be somewhere where nobody was trying to kill him. Could he want to be free? To be like Crouch the Second? Even if he wanted to send slaves scurrying in any direction he chose at the flick of a wand, he wasn't sure he could learn how.  
  
Percy looked up to find Lee still staring at him. They were young men, both, but a lifetime of training had made Percy unable to answer the question.  
  
"Do you want a quill and parchment?"  
  
Percy looked again to find Oliver a few paces behind them. "I don't exactly have anyone to write to."  
  
"You have the book."  
  
"I—what?"  
  
"That was quite the fight. Win or lose, you should write about it."  
  
"It wasn't anything that special," he tried to explain. No one seemed to be believing him. "I just...had to try something. Nothing was working."  
  
"You're humble," Oliver said.  
  
Percy rolled his eyes.  
  
"Well, look, I'll use it if he doesn't, so just bring some along, okay? When you can."  
  
"You'll be wanting an inkpot to go with that," John pointed out.  
  
"Oh, of course," said Lee. "And is there anything else I can get you, good sir?"  
  
John clicked his tongue. "Tell you what. Go round up all the women that are into Percy, pretend you can get him to show up, and then talk to them one at a time until you find someone else worth teasing."  
  
"But you, good sir, are so frustratingly handsome."  
  
Oliver shook his head. "Okay, enough. Any news?"  
  
"Er, the elven fronts are going frightfully well. In another bid for peace, the doddering old Minister has offered to appoint an elf to the Department of Negotiation."  
  
"It'd be an improvement on the incumbent. Any real news?"  
  
"No, and why do you care? I can make something up and it'd be just as useful to you as whatever I say."  
  
"Is Fudge still alive?" Percy asked.  
  
"Yes. That's something."  
  
"Oliver's a political junkie, deep down," said Fred. "Just like they're out there betting on us, he has to bet on who'll be named to the Committee for Committees this week."  
  
"There's no such—" Percy began, then broke off.  
  
"There's a thought," said Oliver.  
  
"He's got a point, you know," said George. "But if you're going to make something up, you might as well stick to the human species."  
  
"Okay, John here has been named to the Department of Propaganda, because no one is going to listen to his jokes anyway," Lee said. "Did I do it right?"  
  
"They'll do it right when they appoint you to be the Secretary for Embezzling Quills," said John.  
  
"Does that mean I can appoint my own Undersecretary? Because if I do, I have a couple ideas."  
  
"Okay, c'mon," said Oliver.  
  
But before he could begin, JamesorJackorAndreworRichard spoke up. "What about Harry Potter?"  
  
"Oh, him?" said Lee. "He's, er, been appointed Secretary of Transportation. So if the Floo Powder's too expensive, it's because he's taxing it to supply his private army of fire-breathing owls."  
  
"All right, that's enough," said Fred. "Leave the lying to the professionals."  
  
"Professionals? How much are you getting paid for this?"  
  
"Not nearly enough. Go order me a couple more quills." But even as Fred flapped his hand in mock dismissal, he was showing off the serpent on his wrist into the cool air.  
  
"All right, well. If it's news you want, I went down to the Jorkins school, and the trainer there was in a decent mood for once. Let me stick around and watch practice. Absolutely nothing new."  
  
"So they're not copying our new stratagem, at least?" Oliver smiled.  
  
"Nope. Same as always. No, I lie; their maces are higher-quality. You're due for a replacement."  
  
"These are fine. Just as useless as any, compared to the real magical ones."  
  
"Or has John been sparring too violently with these again? Tut, tut, good sir, tossing around your weight like that won't suit at all."  
  
"You all right?" Oliver interrupted, turning to glance at JamesandJackandAndrewandRichard.  
  
"It's just," one of them replied, "I was thinking. If you really had fire-breathing owls, wouldn't you just call them very small dragons?"  
  
Oliver rolled his eyes. "Take your time with that parchment and don't come back until you have real news."  
  
Lee's idea of real news, delivered a week or so later, was that the Minister had remained upright in public for almost an hour, blathering on again about Progress on the Continent. Speculation among those in the know was far less concerned with what form Progress would take and far more interested in what sort of magical contrivances he'd used to achieve such a feat of prowess. Invisible slaves propping him up? Enchanted puppetry holding him in place? Dubious potions strengthening his balance?  
  
And he also brought parchment, which Percy took and retreated to his room with. He told himself that he wasn't going to write down much and stuck to a one-paragraph summary of the fight, taking care to mention the part where he'd lost.  
  
 _Really, it's not worth going on about, except that it is. It's original, I suppose, in that I didn't find it here._  He'd have to wedge it in Brutus' book, once he was done, but not yet.  _But if someone else is reading this and needs advice, I would say try to come up with something original—people only liked it_ because they'd never seen it before. Maybe brainstorm things while you're practicing, but not tell anyone about it until then.  
  
I can't speak for the bloke(s) who wrote this thing, but my name is Percy Weasley and I really existed. You won't have heard of my parents but I'm the brother of Fred and George (by the time you read this they might be spelling their names differently) and Charlie. And Billy, who you won't have heard of either. This was when Cornelius Fudge was the Minister and very old.  
  
He blew on it to dry the ink, found it smeared all the same, and breathed slowly on it until the words took their place and sat in line.  
  
Oliver held it up to the sun, nonetheless, before sticking it in the back of the book. "You wrote that fast, for it being so neat."  
  
"I scribed for Crouch the Second," said Percy. "You need good handwriting."  
  
Nodding, Oliver tucked it in the back. And that would have been the end of it until, a few days later, Percy was watching JamesandJackandAndrewandRichard and John bickering over lunchtime.  
  
"There's no way that—Potter, is it?—could be fighting with centaurs in the north and elves in the south  _at the same time._ " John postulated.  
  
"Well, he Apparates, innit."  
  
"Well, you go back and forth, but you still can't be in two places at the exact same time."  
  
"Elven magic. It's the Floo."  
  
"Elves don't have the Floo. They live off in the middle of nowhere."  
  
"Lightning makes forest fires, and that's how the centaurs get Floos. In their caves."  
  
"Centaurs don't live in caves."  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
"How do you know they do?"  
  
"Someone had to move in after the giants moved out."  
  
"There's no such thing as giants."  
  
"Not anymore, the Ministry killed them all."  
  
"And anyway they wouldn't fit."  
  
"They're very big caves. Big enough to put stone fireplaces in."  
  
John, exasperated, had left the table, and JamesandJackandAndrewandRichard had followed along. But minutes later, they were sparring like none of that had ever happened, maces and short swords flying. Having seen the real magical weapons in action, Percy felt even more unsure what to make of the practice equipment they were stuck with. No matter how far the others tossed raptors around, it could never compare to what he'd just survived.  
  
"Can I borrow the book again?" he said. "Margin notes, you know."  
  
"Do you still have any other parchment?" Oliver asked.  
  
"Oh. Yeah. Right." He didn't bother to explain how he had felt, reading through the different pages where multiple people's sentences ran into each other, and wondering maybe if he could be part of that. Better to just get on with business.  
  
 _You should try and think through things in your head, practicing against the stakes if at all. I'm not sure how much things will change by the time anyone else reads this, but apparently not too long ago it was more common to fight your own school rivals than outsiders, and—you probably wouldn't want anyone else to learn what you're thinking._  
  
"How long has it been since anybody else has read this?" he asked, once he'd returned it again.  
  
Oliver squinted. "A year or two now? People...don't seem to like reading much. The ones who stick around for a while...well, some of them don't need it. What I mean is, they take to it so naturally, whatever they were doing before just prepares them well. Like—"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"C'mon."  
  
"It's not—"  
  
"Is it historical? Useful? Some rubbish about honor? You could write it down, it'd fit in the book."  
  
Oliver paused, looking down, and then said, "Your brother was like that. Space. Your brother, Charlie, I mean. Curvy sign of missing the point. He was really brilliant. It doesn't matter, I guess, but to watch him fight, it was beautiful. Curvy sign of finding the point again. Margin note. Not that, I mean, he would have...cared who thought he was beautiful. Nor does he now, I assume. Wherever he is."  
  
Percy paused, and then shook his head. "You're impossible."  
  
"I get that a lot. One of the reasons you're the first one to read the book in that long."  
  
"I don't even— _curvy sign of missing the point_? Do you mean a  _parenthesis_?"  
  
"Is that what it's called?"  
  
"Yes. Why—no. When did you know Charlie?"  
  
"Years ago, now."  
  
"You've been here this whole time?"  
  
"Yeah. More or less. That is, Bagman doesn't know what else to do with me."  
  
"Well, thanks."  
  
"...Any time?"


	12. Chapter 12

Fred and George conversed with each other. Percy didn't know what about. They had low voices, when they wanted to, that ran into each other. Nothing magical about it, and—unlike the faces they could project to the outside world—they didn't seem to be finishing each other's sentences so much as actually having a conversation, discussing ideas, offering counters like normal human beings.  
  
It was just an appearance, anyway, and Percy didn't get too close.  
  
Until the evening when everyone had sort of crowded around one side of the yard, avoiding the sun's glare, and Fred waved him over into the shadows. "Oy. Percy. Want to do us a favor?"  
  
"Sure," said Percy. What could they possibly ask of him?  
  
"In...a couple days...I'll let you know right before, just—watch out for Oliver, and if he seems bored or doesn't have anything to do, just...go over and start talking to him. About your book or whatever. So long as he stays occupied."  
  
"Where are you going?" There was no way they could escape. Could they?  
  
"Not far. Just, nowhere he needs to follow us. We'll be back all in one piece."  
  
"And you're asking me because..."  
  
"He'll listen to you. Or at least, talk at you whether or not you're listening."  
  
"He talks at everyone whether or not they're listening."  
  
"Yes, well, you don't get bored of it."  
  
And that was true. For all Oliver didn't wear the snake around his wrist, they were still more or less equals. It boggled his mind, really, how little the others seemed to care. Didn't they know what they were in for? Or were they all like Charlie, graceful, competent, not needing to hover over the words on dead paper?  
  
He squirmed through the following days. Supposing Fred thought he'd given him a sign, the tiniest flicker, being used to his easy back-and-forth with George, and Percy missed it because Fred hadn't made it clear enough? But then one day as they were leaving lunch, there came a tiny wink, and Percy gritted his jaw, ready for the challenge.  
  
 _If he seems bored_ , Fred had said. Well, what was that supposed to mean? "Er, do you have a minute?"  
  
Fred, following George out the door, gave him a brief, wide-eyed look before vanishing. Maybe more than a minute was called for?  
  
"No," said Oliver, "I'm afraid I have an appointment in the city tonight, can't spare a minute. Sorry!"  
  
"...In the city?"  
  
"I was trying to be funny?"  
  
"Leave that to my brothers," said Percy, a half-second before remembering that drawing attention to the twins was just what he was not supposed to be doing. "Er. I had a question about Brutus' book."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Who published it? I mean, the written pages at the end were just people like me, I guess. But the first few chapters? Who'd go to the trouble of typesetting a book just for fighters?"  
  
"Well, maybe Brutus won his freedom and got it published afterwards?"  
  
"But we've never heard of anybody like that?"  
  
Oliver paused. "I guess maybe you'd know."  
  
"See, I don't think there was ever such a person."  
  
"And it got written, nonetheless!"  
  
Why had Fred asked for a distraction? Whatever he was going to do, he could have done while Percy and Oliver repeated the same conversation for the zillionth time. "But no single person learned enough about all these different styles of fighting and cared enough about being honorable."  
  
"See, some of that would have been borrowed from the soldiers, rhetoric and all that. Name ends in 'us,' he was probably a volunteer anyway. D'you know, if he  _watched_  enough of it, beforehand, he could probably have written most of it. And then have it published..."  
  
"And then gotten himself killed right away, because he didn't actually know what he was doing?"  
  
"When you put it that way..."  
  
"I mean, I'm asking  _you_ , do you think I know what I'm doing?"  
  
"I think—"  
  
"Oy! Oliver!"  
  
Oliver broke off to face a terrified Spinnet, her short hair bouncing behind her as she broke off a sprint. It wasn't like she could have had that far to run. "What?"  
  
"The Weasleys are sick. I dunno if it was something in dinner—if I didn't know better I'd say they were drunk."  
  
"What?" Percy blurted.  
  
"They're just stumbling around. I heard the noise, and I thought something was wrong."  
  
"Well obviously something is wrong, if they're not well." Was  _that_  part of their plan?  
  
Oliver turned towards Percy, head tilting. "Did you all have the same dinner?"  
  
"Yeah. But I feel all right."  
  
"Well, you go check on Messenger, and, er, whatever the other percullors are calling themselves today, I'll see what's wrong with those two jokers."  
  
"They're my family, I can deal with them." He couldn't really remember them, from growing up, though he supposed there must have been times when they were sick, Mum too tired to chase after them. Billy or Charlie would have kept them busy, and Percy was learning to read, learning to be helpful, at something that wouldn't get him killed. Some good that had done him.  
  
"Yeah, all right. Just...don't catch anything."  
  
"Like you guys won't?"  
  
"We're used to breathing our own sweat."  
  
"I had to put up with John all last week when he was sick, never caught anything." And of course, under Crouch the Second there was no taking days off for illness either.  
  
"There is that. Okay, good luck."  
  
Percy nodded, walking off across the yard. Fred and George were leaning against the far wall, against the rooms opposite Oliver's. Did Spinnet live over there? Was that why they weren't supposed to break in? And yet nobody seemed to have much time for her, certainly not to give her her own wing.  
  
"Oy!" he called, his voice dropping as he continued. "Did the, er, 'sickness' throw off your brilliant plans?"  
  
"It's not catching," George waved him over. "Nah, Spinnet just heard us banging around, decided to complain, so we tried to get her to clear out."  
  
"Mission accomplished."  
  
"Not really," said Fred, "but thanks for your help."  
  
"Do I even want to know what you were doing?"  
  
"Testing security. Making sure no saboteurs can come in and...interfere with our practices—"  
  
"Give us food poisoning—" said George.  
  
"That sort of thing."  
  
"That's convincing," said Percy.  
  
"Extremely accurate. Much like the rubbish in whatever book you go on about."  
  
Percy rolled his eyes. "Thanks."  
  
After Fred and George's impressive "recovery," Percy didn't hear anything about the escapade until a few weeks later, when Lee showed up again and seemed a bit put out. "You could have just asked me."  
  
"And what would you have done?" George challenged.  
  
"Helped. Eventually."  
  
"That's no promise," said Fred. "Time moves quickly. Can't guarantee we'll be around by your next visit."  
  
"Actually, I can."  
  
"Oh, and why's that?"  
  
"Because," he said, pulling out an envelope, "I have the next assignments, and neither of you are on it."  
  
"They trusted  _you_  with the assignments?" John groaned.  
  
"Of course not. But the first-choice courier has been re-enslaved for sympathizing with goblins, the second-choice betrayed some bloke to the elves, and the third-choice seems too rich to bribe. So that leaves me."  
  
"You're too rich to bribe."  
  
"I'm not. I just squander all my earnings on extremely dubious companions."  
  
"You should buy slaves, then you could make someone laugh at your jokes."  
  
"If only you'd been on the market. Or were you a freeman, first?"  
  
"Never mind that, what've you got in that envelope?" By that time the others had crowded around and were listening intently.  
  
"It's going to be a proper long day," said Lee, opening it up. "They've finally got that new Robertson Moor stadium open."  
  
"Back to the intraschool fights?" Fred gulped.  
  
"No. Not unless half of you have changed your ruddy names  _yet again_ ," he said, passing the paper over to Oliver.  
  
"No," said Oliver. "Jack is...you." Jack gave a nod. "What, Percy again? That's not fair."  
  
"What?" Percy blurted.  
  
"They're scared of John fighting again. He's too good, it's not even fair," said Lee. For once, he seemed half-serious.  
  
As Percy stared at the sand, Oliver continued to read. "They really are going to town, good grief. They even want Spinnet."  
  
"Do you even have a second name?" JamesorJackorAndreworRichard asked.  
  
"Spinnet is my second name," said Spinnet.  
  
"She's freeborn, they all do," said JamesorJackorAndreworRichard. No, it was Jack, the one who wasn't looking up.  
  
"All right then," said JamesorJackorAndreworRichard, "what's your  _first_  name?"  
  
"Anaximander," said Spinnet.  
  
"Isn't either."  
  
"Aloysius."  
  
"No."  
  
"Oldest daughter," said John.  
  
"Shove off."  
  
"All right, Lee, make yourself useful for once and find out what this git's name is."  
  
"Anything for you," Lee gave a mock bow.  
  
"As everyone's too scared of me to fight, I suppose I'll be around after this arena dedication or whatnot. And so, for that matter, will whatever her name is." John rounded on Spinnet. "Ridiculous women's fights. No one's even trying."  
  
"You don't think I'm trying?" asked Spinnet.  
  
"You don't need to try."  
  
"You're freeborn too, don't start."  
  
"Hold it," said JamesorJackorAndreworRichard. "Wasn't there that woman who got killed, before we came?"  
  
"That was an accident," said John. "It didn't count."  
  
"Of course it counts," Spinnet said. "The stakes  _are_  high—"  
  
"Okay," said Oliver, "that's enough. Jordan, did you bring any Floo Powder?"  
  
"I tried," Lee sighed, "but I'm afraid I was bribed by a rogue elf who wanted to smoke it, so do keep an eye out for a couple annoyed slaves coming to escort you."  
  
"I'll do that." Oliver refolded the letter, shaking his head. "Thanks."  
  
"Oh, any time. Good luck to the lot of you...Percy, Jack. Augusta?"  
  
"Goodbye, Lee," said Spinnet.


	13. Chapter 13

Something about the new Robertson Arena struck Percy as off when they, eventually, Flooed there. It certainly wasn't the ornate decorations in the walls, brightly-colored stones glimmering by the light of strange torches that barely gave off any smoke, or the portraits of wizards and witches slowly pacing down the slightly-curved walls of the building, their wands aloft and harmless jets of light drifting slowly from the floor to the ceiling. He lingered a while to watch them, their faces always in profile, but they never spoke.  
  
Further on there were painted animals, but those remained still, so they probably weren't even transformed Animagi. The balls of light cast by the painted wizards would reflect off the top of the painting, bounce down onto the animals, and then pass right through them.  
  
The others seemed equally curious, John scoffing at the unrealistic depiction. Only the escorting slaves seemed impatient, urging Oliver and John to hurry along, but giving Percy a wide berth. None of  _them_  were afraid it would be their last night alive.  
  
"I hope the food's better," said Fred, "at this new place."  
  
"Oh you  _would_ ," said John.  
  
"What?"  
  
At least, by the time they eventually made it, the door to the dining room was more elaborately decorated with thin sheets of metal. Percy caught sight of his reflection as they went in. Blurred, almost colorless, but if he didn't know better he'd have said he looked strong. He was a little taller than the twins, and as the door rotated outwards they were all three briefly distorted for a moment before shuttling inside.  
  
They took their seats at the back. The layout was similar to the previous stadium, though the tablecloths seemed to twist themselves into knots and return having cleaned themselves somewhat more often. This was entertaining the first time it happened to George, who had to leap out of the way of the silverware that flew up in the air, and less so by the third time Percy had to wait as his plate hovered above him. As far as he was concerned, the food was just as strange, though Fred was mollified.  
  
"It's just nerves," said George. "Go on, scarf down some more."  
  
"Yeah, all right," he said, and it wasn't that bad.  
  
"Okay!" Spinnet eventually called. "So I—"  
  
"Can shove off," said John. "You're in no risk."  
  
"What if she was going to tell us her name! Lee'll be mad you interrupted," Fred protested.  
  
"Yeah, and so much the better. Jackie, speech?"  
  
"I'm  _Jack_ ," said Jack, "and if I snuff it James and Andrew and Richard know what to do."  
  
"Yeah, but  _we_  don't, that's kind of the point."  
  
"Nah, you don't care."  
  
"You should get married," said James, who had finished off both Andrew and Richard's second helpings.  
  
"What, now?"  
  
"Sure, so I can look after your wife."  
  
"You are such a lazy club, you can't even find your own women."  
  
"I'm not lazy, I'm, mmm...making the best use of limited resources. And you're one to talk!"  
  
"No, I'm not, that's the thing of it, I'm just quiet."  
  
"Yeah, whatever."  
  
"Oy," came a voice from behind, "Aemilia?"  
  
Percy blinked to see Lee pacing over, followed by a tall slave woman who squinted at him. "What do you want?"  
  
"Er—nothing. Sorry. I was talking to  _Aemilia_  here," he said, giving an exaggerated nod at Spinnet.  
  
"That's not my name either, now shove  _off_ ," Spinnet repeated, while John glared between the two of them as if unsure who to resent more.  
  
"There's posters all around this place, how thick are you?" said Fred.  
  
"How thick are  _you_?" Lee retaliated.  
  
This seemed somewhat a weak reply, in Percy's view, but it was George who answered the question. "Fred doesn't have time to look at posters. He's been too busy chatting up the portraits on the walls."  
  
"Speaking of outside," said Aemilia the slave, "you ought to get settled in. Come along."  
  
But when they caught another glimpse of the walls, only the large animals glared at them. By that time, the bright faces of the tigers, wolves, and dragons seemed spaced too far apart; the wizards in the pictures had wandered off. Even portraits were more free to move around than them.  
  
As they made their way to their rooms—those at least seeming much better lit—Percy froze up. "Wait a minute. Who even  _built_ this?"  
  
"Wizards?" said Fred. "Witches? Slaves?"  
  
"If you steal a giant's fire," said JamesorJackorAndreworRichard, "they'll do your bidding. You can make 'em haul stone!"  
  
"That's not true," said JamesorJackorAndreworRichard. "You just have to cast a spell at them."  
  
"No, you have to snuff out the fire, then they'll grant you a wish, but after that they die."  
  
"They don't die.  _You_  die when their mates hunt you down."  
  
"Buddy mates or mate mates?"  
  
"Mate mates. Mate."  
  
"Giants don't have mate mates."  
  
"They do so. The centaurs officiate for them, and then as payment the giants go fight wizards for them."  
  
"Oh, giants don't fight wizards. We'd all be dead."  
  
"That's what  _I'm_  saying. You can't even steal their fire. They'll squish you."  
  
"But why?" said Percy. "I mean, why would they build another stadium? I mean, everyone can just Apparate to the old one."  
  
"Oh, quit complaining," said Fred, "these ones don't smell like rubbish."  
  
It was a new stadium, but the same old Minister in the upper boxes, the same old Ministry having the time to spend on painting dragons and shining doors. How was anything supposed to change?  
  
The new bed had few adornments to speak of, and was firm but higher off the ground than the thin cots from Ellis Moor. Really, how long would it take Aemilia or the others to haul them through the Floo? Percy yawned, trying to call the tactics he knew to mind, but it wasn't long before he was dreaming of mirrors, a single face reflected in a thin door until it became two, a hand drawing a sword to become two blades that could pass through each other, and leave no mark.


	14. Chapter 14

And he woke to the insistence of a beating drum. At first too exhausted to be confused, then trying to puzzle out  _how_  he could have been inadvertently dragged into the arena, Percy at last apprehended a drum floating in the corner of the room. He approached cautiously, and at the touch of his hand it fell silent.  
  
Say what you would of Robertson Arena, its accommodations were a step up. It wasn't like its occupants were conscious for most of the time they spent in the rooms, but Percy supposed it was the principle of the thing.  
  
Similarly for breakfast. The wanded watchers who might have appreciated the food were no doubt sleeping in, to Apparate later. At least Fred and George were relaxed enough to enjoy it, sling-shotting food into each other's mouths across the room while Percy ducked.  
  
"All right, then," called another of the slaves, who looked like she could have been Aemilia's sister. "This way, you lot."  
  
Percy squinted. Wasn't he due to fight? Where was Bagman, going to get him set up? Or could there possibly have been some mistake—maybe he wasn't due after all! No sense asking questions, if it meant he might escape.  
  
But there they were, all following her out. Spinnet and Fred and George, JamesandJackandAndrewandRichard. No, the wandeds were too careful to have made a mistake that important. So where were they going? Percy almost wanted to get things over with, then and there. He  _had_  grown stronger, faster. No use standing around if his only job was to prove it.  
  
Instead, they all settled into the front rows like they had before. From inside the arena, it was easier to tell why a new stadium might be called for—the seats rose higher into the air, seemed a little more comfortable even where the fighters were sitting (and the distant seats across the ground seemed far more plush). And despite their number, the seats were mostly full. There were no interfamily squabbles to deter invitations. Everyone who was anyone had shown up, and most of the people who were no one were there, too, rushing about, bringing food up through the stands until seated spectators could Summon it with a wave of their wands. In a few cases, drinks spilled down between the seats, and the disgruntled spellcasters had to magic it away.  
  
Soon enough the self-playing instruments were striking up another march, the drum that had awoken Percy (or at least an indistinguishable model) cheerfully booming among them. And then, once they'd piped down (in one case literally—some panpipes fell to the ground and a furtive witch had had to pick them up and dust them off under the glares of the many spectators), one of the gates was thrown open, and an enormous wolf bounded out.  
  
"Another Animagus?" Percy asked.  
  
"Blimey," said John. "Something that big, no wonder they had these games. This is going to be good."  
  
"No," said George, "I don't think so." And he bent down to whisper something to Fred, who blanched as another door was opened.  
  
The wolf changed direction, sniffing at the upcoming door, as a few humans paced out. Percy stared down at them as they tried to spread out around the rim of the arena. "Where are their weapons?"  
  
"I think they're Muggles," said Fred. "The weapons wouldn't work."  
  
"But that's not even a fight, then. What are they supposed to do, kick sand in its face?"  
  
"It's not a fight," Fred repeated, as the wolf broke for the nearest Muggle, who turned and ran. "Just a delayed punishment. They'd have been sneaking about, breaking into things, probably."  
  
The wolf changed direction, having spotted a closer target nearby, and immediately clawed at it from behind. The Muggle fell to the ground, face in the sand, as the wolf tore into its back. The first Muggle to be chased slowed down, joining the others, who caught their breaths and backed away.  
  
Still gnawing at its first victim, the wolf did not give chase until a tall wizard made his way out of the door and began casting spells at it. Yowling, it turned from the still body of the Muggle and began chasing down the others, one at a time. Each time it struck one down, it would continue to pick at the bleeding flesh until another spell tore it free, increasingly incensed. Finally, it decided to charge at the wizard instead, who quickly shielded himself as the wolf batted at air. The crowd laughed. Percy tried to keep down his breakfast.  
  
The wizard eventually waved his wand at the two remaining Muggles. Though it was hard to see from Percy's distance, their faces seemed to cloud over before they jerked in place, turned, and marched directly towards the wolf. When they were only a short distance away, the wizard flicked his wand and scurried back through the door. The Muggles screamed and ran, but by that time the wolf was too close not to smell them, giving chase and quickly gashing one, who twitched on the ground for a few moments as the wolf gored the other. A few more screams were quickly swallowed up in the shuffling of the crowd, again casting their wands and literally or figuratively cursing their clumsy slaves as more drinks spilled.  
  
Another group of witches shuffled onto the sand. One waved her wand at the wolf until it retreated through the door where it had come in, while others levitated the Muggles' bodies behind them as they cleared out.  
  
A few of the instruments picked up again, while someone tapped Spinnet on the shoulder. After a brief consultation, she followed down the stairs. And then two horses emerged from another door, standing around and kicking up sand. Finally, with a wave of the flute, they took off, sprinting around the outside edge of the arena and jostling to get to the inside.  
  
"This'll be the Animagus fight," said George. "The dog and cat are probably bored sick."  
  
"Some fight," said Percy, as the horses completed one lap and tried for another.  
  
But at least it was some semblance of a fair competition, and as they came around for the second time, exhausted, Percy thought Brutus would have approved. At least more so than the wolves devouring Muggles. What was the point? There was no chance of finding honor in something like that.  
  
Once the horses had trotted back into another tunnel, two more fighters emerged, heavily armored in both helmets and symmetrical arm and leg guards. From the distant shouts of acclaim, one appeared to be named Chouko; the other, of course, was Spinnet.  
  
At a flash of the officiating wand, they paced apart, bearing short swords much like Percy's own. Chouko darted forward first, striking from below and banging her sword off Spinnet's leg shield. Spinnet, turning away, struck back with a blow to the arm guards, and for a few moments they just batted swords against each other, the clash of metal sounding briefly, but then being replaced by another ring before any given strike had time to die away.  
  
Chouko retreated, but only to round on Spinnet once more with a blow to the side. That time, Spinnet fell back, struggling to stay upright and get her bearings. She staggered backwards, but then rose up, looking bloodier than Chouko's blow could have been responsible for. Percy quickly scanned the arena, and sure enough, there were a few other blood splotches where the Muggles had fallen. Perhaps the horses had kicked up sand that covered even more.  
  
A wary Chouko edged backwards, before lunging towards Spinnet's arm guard. Spinnet blocked the attack with the flat of her sword and regained the initiative, hustling forward. Chouko, impressively fast even in reverse, at last changed direction, only for Spinnet to attempt a low strike instead. While Chouko fended that off and then tried to readjust her grip on her sword, Spinnet pressed forward, driving them both closer to the far wall. She took a wild swipe at one of Chouko's arm guards, Chouko jumped to her left, and the sword flicked off the other arm guard instead.  
  
Immediately, the official flicked his wand, and puffs of gray smoke issued forth from the tip of his wand. Spinnet, panting, stepped back and grinned. Chouko, ignoring her, paced over and began yelling at the official, her gestures visible to all the crowd until he Summoned her sword away.  
  
"That's it?" said Percy. "I mean, good for Spinnet—"  
  
"Nah," said John, "it's as rubbish as you think. Not even a real fight, just something to—I don't know—keep them busy while they wait for us. Speaking of which, you're up next."  
  
For Bagman was standing behind them, waving Jack and Percy down to the equipment room. As he strapped on his shields, somewhat more quickly than his first time, Percy tried to gather up his thoughts. It had certainly been as fair a fight as the horse race had been, and if neither contestant was seriously hurt, so much the better. Wasn't it? They weren't  _doing_  anything useful, slaving like he'd been so recently, win or lose, live or die.  
  
And could he be useful, getting himself killed? Testing his sword and double-checking his straps, Percy felt like he well might. Maybe that was Brutus talking.  
  
"Er—" someone began. Not Jack, one of the other opponents.  
  
"Come along, then!" said a balding man, perhaps Bagman's counterpart from another school. His smile seemed a bit too broad for his face, and he waved the speaker forward, a split-second later beckoning Jack as well.  
  
"Good luck," Percy offered. Jack did not turn, but raised his mace, in acknowledgment or just to test its heft.  
  
"I say," said Bagman, "bit of a thrill, these multi-fight days, isn't it? Really sends you back to the old days."  
  
The remaining man, Percy's opponent, grunted.  
  
"Oh, but what am I talking about, of course. Silly me. Hullo, how's this now?"  
  
He whipped out his wand, and Percy felt his legs stiffen in spite of himself. Bagman, however, paid neither of them any mind and began circling it at the ceiling. Whispering a few incantations under his breath, he finally lowered his wand.  
  
"A useful spell, that one. Comes in very handy at the right times, heh heh!"  
  
"Like I'm ever gonna get a wand," the other fighter complained. "What did you even do?"  
  
"Look up," said Percy.  
  
For the stone in the ceiling had warped under the force of the magic. It was still the same gray cover, yet half-transparent, so that ghostly images of Jack and his opponent could be seen through the stone. Except that whenever someone rushed by and kicked another pile of sand over the opening, the sand that had been there originally remained under the enchantment. The rest was opaque, so only flickering, upside-down images passed through.  
  
There was Jack, running with his mace at his side. There was the round shield, whizzing across the sand. There was the other fighter, chasing after it or Jack or something just out of view. There was one of the spikes from the mace, sliced off and toppling through the air as if hurled at Bagman's nose. There was another. There was a pile of bloody sand, Muggle or wizard, it was impossible to see. There was Jack, running more slowly. There was the mace, swung to trace out a half-circle, more spikes on one side than the other. There was a foot streaking too fast for anyone to see who it belonged to. There was the shield again, floating to the ground until it settled on top of the transparent stone.  
  
"Oh I say," Bagman called, "poor form. You're supposed to aim at the other bloke!" The spectators upstairs were silent.  
  
The shield vanished, picked up by the other fighter. Or by Jack? No, there was the other fighter, lashing out with his spear. There he was, facing another direction. There was another spike from the mace. There was Jack, running backwards. There was the other fighter, giving chase. There was a splash of sand.  
  
Percy waited, curious whether Bagman would cast it away, but he didn't move. A few grains spilled down, then another wave, a few more blood splatters mixed in. Had they been kicked, or was it just the wind?  
  
Then the bald man made his way downstairs. "Greened out," he smiled at Bagman. "Come along, you lot."  
  
"Elf's tail! I can't afford much more of this," Bagman crossed his arms, waving his wand at the ceiling. The stone clouded over before reverting to its solid state.  
  
"Why so glum? I'm sure you're doing fine."  
  
"Shove off."  
  
"Don't count your owls before they're hatched. There's another fight left. Come on!"  
  
"Right, yeah," said Percy, following him up to the arena, although slowly.  
  
The sand was still there, drifting in piles, and if there were any bloodstains, Percy didn't notice them from his view. The opponent who glared at him was another percullor, mace in hand.  
  
A flash of light— _even Spinnet had had one of those, but not the horses,_  certainly  _not..._  
  
No, it made no sense to think when the percullor was rushing him. Percy flipped his toggle to steady his breathing. No need to run fast, just deflecting blow after blow. The blows came in more slowly than he was used to from Fred and George, and only the follow-through as the percullor shifted his weight from side to side prevented Percy from lashing out at him, as he had done so often to the stake.  
  
Percy gave chase, waiting a few seconds before switching his toggle to the side. As he hoped, he quickly gained on his confused opponent, reaching out with his sword and drawing first blood near the other man's hip. Percy tried to time his breathing, setting a steady pace as he raised his sword again but dodged to avoid a jab from the mace. So he sliced upwards from below, nicking his opponent's arm before another spike quickly jerked in front of him.  
  
Raising his sword, Percy blocked another attack as he readjusted his helmet. Time to slow down and be prepared for—what? It wasn't like he was facing a raptor or even a round shield, which was for the best, as trapping something under his helmet was definitely not going to work  _again_. No, they had no choice but to keep the fight at close range. Take off one spike. Then another. Then watch as they shrink into the mace, which meant it was a club again. Probably to be aimed at him rather than the sword, there—Percy leaped and deflected the blow, but was unable to muster up a counterattack with the shield having grown so large.  
  
So no sense in just aiming for the spikes, then, if percullors could just pull them back anyway. He'd have to aim for the other man himself.  
  
As Percy turned, still breathing freely, he waved his sword in every direction, almost too fast to aim at anything in particular. But below his sweaty grip, he could still feel it change direction. Cold meant he was close to striking true, but that would do him no good if the shield was too large. Through the narrow eyeholes, he waited for the sword to warm up, like  _so_ , something that wouldn't kill the other man right away, but somewhere where he'd still be vulnerable. A stab, there. Percy quickly brought his hand back and flapped his sword back and forth until he found another lukewarm spot, and struck again. Why bother reaching for the vital organs? He wasn't out of control or slashing blindly despite his narrow vision. No, the fight was balanced.  
  
Or at least he was balanced, digging into the sand. There didn't seem to be much of a fight; after the first six or seven stabs Percy had taken, his opponent leapt backwards. Slowed down by the helmet, Percy took his time in pursuing him. There was as of yet no sign of a return blow, so he pushed forward again. One foot landed on the ground, then the next, and there was no need for balance, just the feel of flicking the sand back behind him as he gave chase.  
  
Spurred on by his own excitement, he took a deep breath and switched the toggle in time to give him a bit more pace, and waited for the sword to flash colder before driving it forward. As he predicted, his opponent's shield had slipped as he recoiled, and it was easier for Percy to get in a deep blow near the man's stomach before the mace slapped him away again. He took a step backward and the advantage of the respite to switch his helmet once more.  
  
Did the sacrifice of speed afforded by breathing more easily extend to the speed of his hand as he struck again, lukewarm spot after lukewarm spot? It didn't seem to. That was a potential advantage that he could write about in the book.  
  
 _Could_  write about, once he survived. For a brief, heady minute, Percy felt assured of his own survival. It was hardly as long a fight as his first encounter had been, and that time around, he had the advantage. Then, realizing he'd jumped to conclusions, he instead dug into the sand, taking another flurry of short stabs.  
  
And still there was no return blow, the wound to the stomach having perhaps done most of the work. After another heat-aided stab, that one as unremarkable as the handful that had preceded it, a few spikes reemerged as much by the accidental slip of a hand as by any intent. And then, with the man's other hand, he raised a single finger.  
  
Percy jerked his sword backward, breathing tensely for reasons that had nothing to do with the helmet. He'd won, somehow, and yet there was even more work to do. It could not be any more exhausting or nerve-wracking than waiting for the responses after his first fight. And yet, at least that time he'd had the wild sense to take his helmet off, instead of having to turn around to see beyond the narrow range of his eyeholes. Green sparks, then some red ones, but yet more green, green reflecting into green. Slowly, he turned his head to the uppermost boxes. There was no upper-class host officially organizing the celebration, just the stadium itself being born, and he did not recognize whoever it was that cast the green bolt of light up into the cloudy air.  
  
Percy walked forward, slowly. His opponent was scowling, but Chouko had shown more emotion in not being allowed to continue her fight. Brutus, he recalled, had not explained much about the actual act of killing. Perhaps he was writing for literate volunteer types who could easily imagine themselves going out to fight the wild elves. But elves were small and wouldn't stop fighting.  
  
The percullor faced him with blank eyes, as red haze hovered in the air, the afterimage of the green in the sky. Percy raised his sword, trying to keep himself steady as he plunged it into the other man's neck. The percullor remained teetering on his feet for a few endless moments before tottering to the sand, face-first, and Percy jumped backwards as he let go of his sword. The roar of the crowd around him seemed high-pitched, inarticulate.  
  
Then the officials were hustling over, the main one kneeling by the body of the dead man and quickly waving his wand from side to side. Another approached Percy, handing him one of those branches. "Are you even hurt?"  
  
Percy tried to say that he didn't know, it had been so quick of a fight it hardly seemed like the mace had gotten in any blows in at all, but only a trickle of vowels came out. Rolling his eyes, the official cast a few quick spells, and bruises Percy had ignored cleared up.  
  
"Do...do I need to...get the sword?"  
  
"No."  
  
Nodding, he walked off the sand and back down the stairs, as much being carried along by the slope of the steps than attempting to make any progress. It had been a short fight, but that didn't prevent him from being exhausted as he slowly took off the armor. He caught a glimpse of his face, distorted and staring up at him from the metal of one of the arm guards. He was supposed to be brave, supposed to be honorable, but only seemed expressionless.  
  
They Flooed back to the school, and neither the heat of the flames or the bright red color could stir Percy. He stepped forward, past John's curious eyes, past JamesandAndrewandRichard, finally managing to smile when Fred and George enveloped him in their hug.  
  
But then, later, there was Oliver's casual wave. "Well done."  
  
"Well  _done_?" Percy blurted.  
  
"Don't sell yourself short," Oliver said dryly. "You were brilliant. That was very fast. You—you learn well."  
  
"I just killed someone."  
  
"Yes, you seem to pick up the basics of following directions very quickly, too. That's an asset."  
  
"That could have been someone's—brother, husband? It could have been Jack! Where is he, anyway?"  
  
Oliver raised his eyebrows.  
  
Percy clenched his fists, half-wishing he had a sword to hurl at the stake or into the ground. "And was anyone going to tell me this?"  
  
"You'd have caught on."  
  
"And you're not reacting? You don't miss him?"  
  
"Of course, I'm disappointed."  
  
"That our friend is dead? Or that you weren't a good enough teacher to win every fight?"  
  
Oliver took a step back. "If I let myself care about everyone who passes through here, then I'd be useless, and none of you would be in a good enough shape to survive. Yourself included, I need hardly say."  
  
And then it was Percy's turn to recoil as if pushed. "I...I thought you were different," he found himself saying, anything more refusing to creep out of the confines of his mouth.  
  
"I'm different," said Oliver, "from a lot of people. But that doesn't give me the right to befriend any of you."  
  
"And what am I supposed to do? I kill a man, and I go back to pretending nothing's happened?"  
  
"You don't pretend. You go on, because you can, a heck of a lot better than that bloke can. Better than, than James or Andrew or Richard will without their friend."  
  
"So what am I?"  
  
"You're the same person you've always been. You're brilliant and serious and you love your family, you care about knowing what's going on in the world, and you practice hard to make yourself stronger and faster."  
  
"That's awfully complimentary for someone who claims not to care about the people coming through here."  
  
"As we've seen, I'm not exactly adequate."  
  
"Shut up," said Percy. "You're brilliant." And with that he'd stepped forward and hugged Oliver, moving his own face towards his—  
  
"Please don't."  
  
Immediately, Percy let go and retreated, but he didn't pull his gaze away. "Of course. But was that just another instruction to follow?"  
  
"It was...a polite request between equals. Friends."  
  
"Friends. Of course. If you don't...fancy men—"  
  
"For someone so brilliant, you can also be just as idiotic. Don't you see how bad an idea it would be, for us to get together? Setting aside that there's nowhere to go out  _to_."  
  
"What do we—what do  _you_ , specifically, have to lose?"  
  
"Anything could happen to you—"  
  
"Yeah, and then I'd be dead, wouldn't I? But you wouldn't get to make it about  _you_. I'd be dignified or whatever I'm supposed to be, and you can't mope forever. Even if you have to mourn me, it's better than being dead."  
  
"Well technically, depending on how one interprets—"  
  
"Chapter Four," Percy interrupted, just as Oliver was saying the same thing. Before Oliver could delve any further into the merits of moving on rather than haunting the earth, Percy continued. "You see, we understand each other. I'm stuck here already, what do I have to lose? I'd just as soon pass my time with—with someone I know cares about me the same way."  
  
Oliver looked him up and down. "And how, exactly, do you think one could manage any sort of love affair with someone else stuck within the same compound?" It was not a doubting question, nor a  _I know the answer and you don't_  boast, just a simple challenge.  
  
Percy smiled. "Let me show you."


	15. Chapter 15

Some days Percy would wake up early, arriving in the kitchen almost as soon as the cook. She insisted on not letting any of them help with meals, but eventually acquiesced when he renegotiated his ideas. Soon enough, he would grin as he presented Oliver his oatmeal, perhaps with an extra spin of the bowl thrown in for flair. Fred and George whistled the first few times, but by the end of the week had grown bored with the routine and offered more specific advice instead.  
  
"You should get some kind of bread," Fred commented. "Then Percy could carve little smiley faces into it."  
  
"Or your initials," said George, "that would be adorable."  
  
"Bagman and them probably don't trust me with knives," said Percy.  
  
"Not when wandeds are around they don't," said Fred. "But who are you going to stab  _here_? The cook? She's no threat. It took her two days to realize Jackie was gone." (With JimmyandAndyandRitchie disyllabic once more, they had retroactively bestowed the final syllable upon their deceased comrade.)  
  
"Why do you even eat oatmeal?" George asked Oliver. "You're not a fighter. You should get your own range of food."  
  
He shrugged. "Bagman's cheap."  
  
And then there were the nights when Percy slept in, having stayed up late the night before looking at stars. "All I know about constellations is the ones people's cousins are named after," he admitted. "I'd address a letter to somebody from the Ministry and if Crouch the Second would trail off he'd try and remember what stars they represented."  
  
"And how often would he trail off?"  
  
"Oh, hardly ever. More often it was Crouch the First, really. He'd be visiting and they'd drink and gossip. You needed lots of wine in store, when Crouch the First Apparated over."  
  
Oliver paused, perhaps nodding in the dim light, perhaps trying to change the subject. "I think those two are planets."  
  
"What two?"  
  
"I'm pointing."  
  
"I can't see."  
  
"Well, they're, I dunno, bright ones."  
  
"There's a bunch of bright ones, you git."  
  
And Oliver would laugh. They tried to surmise patterns, make up their own images in the sky, but they were always just "patterns." Someone, some witch or wizard with too much time on their hands, had been able to sit down and make up a whole list of official constellations, and Percy and Oliver weren't going to pretend to supersede the official records. Their own patterns were enough.  
  
And afternoons, they'd sit together and read, Oliver making up ridiculous accents as he paged through Brutus' book at random. "Ze pittiatorus will 'url ze raptor from a deestance, and eef he changes ze angle of hees arm, why zen eet may veer een unexplained directions." Unexplained, but not altogether unpredictable. You could always guess, always try to learn something. He flipped a few pages more and started in again. "Ven the saecutor varies his helmet, he cannot run fast, but must vok slowly. All the same, he can guess vere you will be vulnerable, and strike vith that knowledge."  
  
"Do the margin notes!" Percy demanded.  
  
Oliver rolled his eyes, but quickly obliged. "Ah don't think this here is a problem. As long as ye keep yore shield in hand, any percullor will stay close. Ah've practiced against the stake and it works fine, if ye're not afeared of quick fights." He handed the book over. "Here, ye try."  
  
"Ye?"  
  
"You."  
  
Percy flipped it open to the middle of the neat handwritten part after the typeset chapters. "I haven't heard that many accents."  
  
"Just make something up."  
  
"Right, then. Oh, I say, I've been testing out the jolly old raptors, what what, and they do seem to fly at a quite magnificent angle if the wind carries them. Pip pip! From a distance the wooden ones can well and truly mimic the proper magical ones. You cheeky blighters, you want to wait until the wind only goes and blows towards the rising sun. Cheerio!" Oliver seemed to have laughed himself to tears, and Percy blushed as he closed the book. "I dunno. I get it from my brothers."  
  
Lee was pleasantly surprised to hear the news, when he next dropped in. "You're serious?"  
  
"Unless I blow it," Percy blushed.  
  
"On the bright side, it's not like you have transportation difficulties to worry about. I, on the other hand, have to break the disappointing news to your legions of admirers."  
  
"What about my admirers?" Oliver called over.  
  
"Get with the times. You haven't had any admirers for years. No one wants your ugly mug."  
  
"So much the better for you, then, eh, Percy? Less competition."  
  
"Oh, gag me," said John. "I liked you better when you were too uptight to use anybody's second names."  
  
"Gag you? That's an unorthodox request," Lee shrugged. "But anything for you."  
  
"You're just glad to have honest opinions on whether or not  _you're_  a handsome man, aren't you."  
  
"I must admit I don't actually fancy men. Though, if you were game, I'd sure I could—"  
  
"Make an exception, yes, I've heard."  
  
"I'm dreadfully brilliant at making exceptions, you know!"  
  
"To the terms of your contract, which is why you keep getting fired?"  
  
"How very dare you! I've made it back here, haven't I?"  
  
Percy raised his hand. "I'd like another inkpot. And parchment."  
  
"How's your quill holding up?"  
  
"It's brilliant!" Percy replied, proffering it for view. All right, half the feathers on one side were missing, and the rest were crumpled at angles befitting no living bird, but that was just the consequence of exuberance, wasn't it? He'd had a lot of tactics to write up about.  
  
"...I'd hate to see your  _rubbish_  one."  
  
"And George and I want one of those silly beasts that tunnel all over the place, if you can spare one," said Fred.  
  
Lee blinked. "You want a  _Niffler_?"  
  
"Is that what they're called?"  
  
"How do you remember those?"  
  
"They're from when we were little. Had an infestation one year. Ran all over the place."  
  
"Pooped on the babies," George added.  
  
"The  _babies_?" asked Lee, sparing Percy from making the same incredulous look.  
  
"Mum had a couple more babies, after we and her got sold," said George. "I think. They might have been someone else's, she wound up nursing so many..."  
  
"More babies?" asked Percy. "How many brothers do I even have?"  
  
"Five," said George, at the same moment Fred was saying "six," but then revised his guess to "four, innit."  
  
Percy stared. That was his family, and he, for all his fame and admirers he could not love back, wasn't free enough to find them. But then Oliver was taking his hand and he felt a sudden rush of warmth. Oliver, who'd never say too much about his own past or his own family, was still standing with him. It wasn't  _enough_ , but it was better than all right.  
  
"Er," said Fred, "what I'm saying is—"  
  
"You can't actually bring a...Nibbler?" George guessed.  
  
"Anything like that in here—"  
  
"It'll run around...and poop all over..."  
  
"Spinnet?" John asked with a straight face, and for a moment they all glanced at him before shaking their heads and laughing once more.  
  
"We need  _help_ ," said Fred, "is what we're saying."  
  
"Oh, no, I don't  _help_ ," Lee repeated. "Not you, you'll only make me make a habit of it."  
  
"It's not that hard."  
  
"What is it, then?"  
  
George sighed. "For all he's mellowed out in the excitement of young love, and we really are happy for him—"  
  
"Oliver's listening," Fred explained, "and he would  _not_  approve."  
  
"I'm sure I could distract him," Percy smiled.  
  
Fred whistled, and George just said, "We really are a horrible influence on you."  
  
"But," Fred dropped his voice, "if you had magical glass—"  
  
"A weapon of some kind—"  
  
"Magic that let you see through walls—"  
  
Percy raised his finger to his mouth. "Is that all?"  
  
"Is what what?" said Oliver.  
  
"There's a spell," Percy mouthed, "Bagman knows it..."  
  
Lee and Fred bent in hurried consultation. "I could have done that ages ago!"  
  
"We liked a challenge," George tried to explain.  
  
"A  _challenge_?" said Oliver. "Like trying to learn how to fight for your lives isn't enough of a challenge? I've got to revise the schedule, I'm going soft."  
  
"Told you he'd take it well."  
  
"All right, hold up," said Lee. "Oliver, where do you live? I mean," he added, as Oliver looked ready to whirl his arm around in a gesture, "where, specifically, in this building, do you sleep?"  
  
Oliver hesitated before pointing to the side dorms. "Maybe closer to the kitchen, I'm not sure of the specifics."  
  
"Close enough. And, as long as you've been here, has there ever been any other teacher?" Oliver hesitated, and Lee added, "As long as you've been teaching. You've been the only one."  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Percy, what's the first thing they tell you when you get here?"  
  
"I don't know. Run laps?"  
  
"Before that."  
  
"Survival not guaranteed?"  
  
"Before that."  
  
"I don't—stay out of the side dorms."  
  
"And did you?"  
  
"I mean, not really, I drop in on Oliver's a lot—"  
  
"I see I'm interrogating the wrong person," Lee deadpanned, as Fred and George cackled. Even JimmyandAndyandRitchie seemed genuinely pleased.  
  
"To read  _books_ , you git!"  
  
"All right, whatever. Oliver, who do you think lives on the opposite side dorm?"  
  
"Nobody you'd want to meet," said Oliver.  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
"I haven't been there, and you're certainly not getting in."  
  
Lee raised his eyebrows, and then his wand, casting the spell from a distance. It made no discernible impact, and he clicked out a  _tsk_. "Too far."  
  
"Don't."  
  
"How much do you know?" Percy said, again barely speaking above a whisper.  
  
"I'm not sure," said Oliver, just as quietly. "I'd rather stay ignorant."  
  
"You?"  
  
"What do  _you_  want to do?" Oliver scowled. "Write a book about it?"  
  
"Whatever it is, it's not your problem."  
  
"No. It isn't. Not until those stones turn into windows. Then it'll  _become_  my problem."  
  
"No, it won't."  
  
"That's not for you to say."  
  
"There's nothing here."  
  
That was Lee, who had paced across the compound to cast the spell from a closer distance. Fred and George raced after him to squint, and sure enough, making the stone more transparent revealed...an identical wall across an empty room.  
  
"No," said George, "try again, further down."  
  
Lee obliged, and sure enough, the room was not completely empty, just bare of anything more than a few inches off the ground. There were several small mats crowded together across the floor, but it was otherwise unfurnished.  
  
"They could be beds, I guess. Extra rooms if there are more fighters?"  
  
"There haven't been enough to fill up the main dorms for a long time now," said Fred. "Isn't that right, Oliver?"  
  
"I told you I wasn't getting involved," Oliver muttered unconvincingly.  
  
"Well, who else would they want to lock up?"  
  
"Wolves aren't going to sleep on mats..." George trailed off.  
  
"So it's the Muggles, then," Fred concluded. "Or it was, before."  
  
"You don't know that," said George.  
  
"Might as well be. Cheers, Lee."  
  
"So what do we do?"  
  
"What do we do? I dunno, go spar with John or something."  
  
"But about the building?"  
  
"There's nobody there, and even if there was, what would we do, break them out with our maces?"  
  
"I thought you had a plan!"  
  
"When do I ever have plans? I just wanted to find something out." He turned and grinned at Percy, as if expecting approval for his natural curiosity.  
  
"I mean, there was that big thing for the new stadium," Lee admitted. "Everyone they'd needed to kill might have been all killed off then."  
  
"Can you do the spell without a wand?" said George.  
  
"No."  
  
"Maybe you're just saying that, because you don't want us making a scene."  
  
"Maybe I am. This time, though, I'm not."  
  
" _This_  time? How many times have you lied to us?"  
  
"None," he paused. "Including just then."  
  
"Git."  
  
When Lee came back, he refused to cast the spell again. "You lot have enough to deal with as it is. Even if there are Muggles in there, they're not your responsibility."  
  
 _Is anything, though?_  Percy wondered. Muggles didn't watch him. They couldn't learn from him. They didn't fight in the wars. He remembered, vaguely, that they'd tried to draft some. That was when he was too little to read and write much and just helped out in the kitchen. The Muggles either couldn't use the weapons or rebelled against their commanders or ran away.  
  
He was distracted, however, by the ink and parchment Lee had bought. "No quill. You can use your old one, junk as it is. That way no one thinks you're going soft in here."  
  
"I like my quill!" Percy protested. "It fits my hand."  
  
"It fits your hand?"  
  
"Yeah. Like the practice swords. You get used to them, after a while." He could tell them apart, knew the chips and the grains of the wood, knew when they were weaker on one side than the other. It was just like learning how much seasoning Crouch the Second liked in his soup, how high you could fill different glasses before they spilled. He learned without thinking and found himself wondering whether any of it mattered.  
  
Lee gave him a look.  
  
"Are you going to write strategy?" Oliver asked, later that night, when Percy was carefully folding the parchment back and forth, scoring it down the middle.  
  
"Something better."  
  
"Philosophy, then?"  
  
"Wait and see."  
  
He partitioned the parchment into even rectangles, ruling them off and then, once he'd folded them enough times that they might as well have been perforated, ripped them apart, listening to the whistling noise of the air sliding between halves of the paper. Then he stacked them up, carefully, trying to make sure they wouldn't all run out at once.  
  
So over the next few days and weeks, Oliver found official-looking memoranda in every direction. On his plate, on his bed, in the showers, in the boxes of practice swords.  _Official business: smile! Thank you for successful completion of today's assignment: being Oliver. Ministry evidence suggests you are in possession of a dangerously attractive face._  Okay, maybe it was a bad idea to hide  _that_  one with the practice equipment, where Fred and George could run across it and hold it as ransom in exchange for not having to spar after lunch. Oliver just claimed they were only hurting themselves, and if Percy had anything to say he could say it to his face.  
  
Percy did, silently thankful that he'd decided to amend his previous (and even more embarrassing) idea for the memo.  
  
And once Oliver had gotten used to the crisp edges, Percy varied the pattern, ripping off corners where, had it been a real Ministerial letter, an owl might have pooped on it. Or he'd make checkboxes, except instead of  _Contact Notes: Will owl back, Please Apparate, Do Not Contact By Floo_  it was  _Overseen Being: Handsome, Brilliant, Dedicated_. You could check off as many checkboxes as you wanted, really, and after a while the different combinations added up.  
  
Given the amount of time he spent ripping off edges, he ran out of parchment before he ran out of ink. "Do you still have the well?" Oliver asked one night.  
  
"Yeah. But there's no parchment left."  
  
"That's all right. Do you mind getting it out? I have an idea."  
  
" _You_  have an idea? That scares me a little. Did you get it from Fred?"  
  
"I have, on occasion, known what I'm doing."  
  
"Oh, don't be modest," said Percy, standing up and getting the inkwell.  
  
It was a clear night, the moon almost unhelpfully bright and ready to outshine the stars as soon as they came into view. There was still enough light to see by as Oliver reached for the quill. "He was right."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"J—Lee. This is a  _horrible_  quill." And he laughed as he held its end, at first as if to give it a jerk until the wrinkles fell out, but then clumsily slid his hand down the quill to grasp it, in some semblance of a writing position.  
  
"Like you can afford to be picky! And anyway, you still don't have any parchment."  
  
"I don't need any," Oliver said quietly, dipping the quill in the inkwell, then lifting it up, holding it—  
  
"Please stop."  
  
Oliver froze, the quill still in place. An inkblot splashed on the ground as he turned to look at Percy, his face tilting in query.  
  
"There were other slaves like that, before—who'd try to scratch out their owners' names, you know, and write their lovers' names instead. They thought it was cute, but I just always thought it was ugly. It's ink, it'll always wash off, and the owners' name will still be there. And besides, it's as if all you could imagine was being owned, all you could imagine for the person you love best was turning them into just another slave-owner. Even if somehow they got free. I'm not—that's not how I want you to imagine my name."  
  
Oliver gave a slow nod, another drop of ink falling down. "You're kinder than that. You're more creative than that."  
  
"Thank you. I just—please don't."  
  
"Okay. That's good to know. I won't write your name. Do you mind if I write something else instead?"  
  
Percy looked up at him, and a moment later felt trust. It was Oliver's hand, spread out below him, and he could think of nothing Oliver could do that would make him love it less. "Go for it."  
  
A quick smile, and Oliver had scrawled off something before restoring the quill to the inkpot, feathers poking out at all angles. "Okay," he giggled, "maybe I  _did_  get this from Fred."  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
Oliver raised his hand, a tiny rivulet of ink coursing down between his thumb and forefinger, so Percy could make out the words.  _Bagman_  was still there, of course, followed in close but novel succession of  _is a git_.  
  
And then Percy was laughing at all it did and didn't say. "Git?" he finally blurted. "All the words you could pick, and you go with git?"  
  
"It gets the point across, and it cramps my hands to write with that stupid little quill."  
  
"I'll say," said Percy, taking Oliver's hand in his. "Your handwriting is—"  
  
He broke off before he could get to "awful" (or maybe some stronger word), turning instead to look at Oliver with eyes wide. "It's you."  
  
"It's me," he parroted, not understanding. It was him Percy spoke to, it was him who chose freely what to write on his own hand, but that wasn't it at all.  
  
"No. It's you—you're the one who wrote all those margin notes. With that terrible handwriting."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You were a gladiator. Janitus."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And...what happened?"  
  
"Wasn't trustworthy enough to be set free. Wasn't rubbish enough to get killed. So here we are."  
  
That seemed a remarkably incomplete answer, but Percy wasn't going to press him, directly. "Is that typical? I mean, who taught you?"  
  
"Retired fighter—had already earned his freedom and had a wand and all that. He'd Apparate in, every day, and Bagman paid him. I think that's how the other schools do it. I'm not exactly sure. Jordan might know."  
  
"If that's not normal, why do you think you're still here?"  
  
"Bagman's cheap. And also," Oliver raised his hand, "a git."


	16. Chapter 16

By the next day, of course, the ink had washed off, and Percy didn't mention the night again. If he held Oliver's hand particularly closely in the coming days, well, Oliver didn't comment. Fred and George might have whistled more loudly than normal, but Percy was too distracted to pay attention. And not just by Oliver, but by the way the world looked more vibrant in Oliver's hand. Maybe it was just how long he'd been there, but he could tell Jimmy and Andy and Ritchie apart, and it was impossible to imagine that anyone  _couldn't_. Clearly Jimmy was short and the fastest runner, whirling and redoubling as he attacked the stake, and he seemed likely to shatter the mace with every other blow. Of course Andy had the palest complexion and wrinkled his eyebrows as he attempted to keep up with the bawdy lyrics. Ritchie was always wondering about the betting odds, whether he'd be the favorite, how much money Jackie would have made Bagman over the course of his lifetime. They were all so alive and so lovable, by someone or another. They all deserved gaggles of admirers, if of course they should happen to want them, or if not that, then families and friends and comrades. Who wouldn't, when all manners of love were so rich in the air?  
  
Well, maybe not quite everyone.  
  
"How is he even alive?" said George.  
  
"Magic, innit," said Jimmy.  
  
"He who?" asked Percy.  
  
"Fudge," George spat. "Only goes and throws himself a birthday party?"  
  
"What's a birthday party?" said Ritchie.  
  
"Oh, I used to cook for one of those," said Jimmy. "You bake a sweet for whoever's birthday it is—it's wanded people, they know the exact day they were born and then wait for the day to come around again. Then you set it on fire."  
  
Andy squinted. "Fudge is..."  
  
"Also a kind of sweet..."  
  
"And so...they're going to set him on fire? Good riddance."  
  
"Huh. No. That can't be right."  
  
"Maybe Harry Potter will show up and set him on fire!" Andy suggested.  
  
"Maybe he will," said Ritchie, "but we probably wouldn't get news about it in advance. It would be a secret."  
  
"It's supposed to be a very important birthday," George said.  
  
"Well, obviously."  
  
"So what?" said Percy.  
  
"So he's going to have a big fight is what." Oliver crossed his arms, tucking a letter in one hand underneath the opposite forearm.  
  
"Well," said Fred. "Maybe that's why he hasn't retired yet, he just wanted one more big party while we're all still paying attention, before he quits."  
  
"You might actually be right about that. So much the worse for you."  
  
"So much the worse?" asked Percy. "Fred, you're fighting."  
  
"That's right!" Fred smiled. "So is John here. Johnny. Whatever you're calling yourself now."  
  
"They'll call me freeman soon enough, if I have anything to say about it," said John.  
  
"That's the confidence we like to see."  
  
"Oh?" said George. "And what about your confidence?"  
  
"I'm so confident, the officials get mad at me when I walk in because I look too confident. It's not a fair fight." He clapped Oliver on the back. "You all go on about fair play and honor and all that rubbish. It's a bit boring. I have to look a bit nervous or else they won't let me bother."  
  
John appraised Fred for a moment, before glancing at Oliver. "Who exactly are we fighting? Does it say?"  
  
Oliver nodded, without looking at the sheet. "You've got Vinny, percullor from the MacFarlan school. Fred's taking on Davey, saecutor from the same one."  
  
"Why not have John fight Fred, and those two blokes go at it?" Ritchie asked. "The betting was better for inter-school fights, I think. Back in the day."  
  
"People had more money to bet with, back in the day, and there were more fights in general," said Jimmy.  
  
"He's got a point, though," said John. "At least when I got here, that was the rule, no fraternization. You'll wind up fighting these people. We see how well that's worked." He glanced around, and Percy looked down, seeing George do the same out of the corner of his eye. "What changed?"  
  
The question had to be directed at Oliver. John might have been there the longest of everyone else, a lucky stroke away from winning his freedom any given time out. But Oliver seemed to pretend not to hear, or at least not to notice the eyes turning to him.  
  
"Oliver, you must remember something," John finally said.  
  
"I don't know," said Oliver.  
  
But Percy recognized that answer; it sounded very much like the "I don't know" he'd given Lee about the side dorms. "Come off it, you have a guess."  
  
"There's enough guesswork in this business that I don't need to go about adding any more."  
  
"We recognize it's just a guess, but you know a lot more than we do. John's been at this for—I don't know how long. He deserves an answer."  
  
"Do you want an answer?" Oliver rounded on him. "Because I'll give you one. It just might not have anything to do with the truth."  
  
Fred shrugged. "Go on, then."  
  
Hands behind his back, Oliver began to pace. "Jimmy's right. There were more fights than there are now, because there were more fighters in general. Don't ask me what's changed, less rebellious slaves, less slaves overall, I wouldn't know. I don't get out much." Andy suppressed a nervous giggle. "If I had to guess, I would say—it's bad for business when...a fighter dies, right? Or wins their freedom? The owners would just as soon have a narrow win, too high-quality to kill the loser off and too sloppy to let the winner go. That's where the gambling makes the most profits."  
  
"But that doesn't have anything to do with inter-school fights," said Andy. Jimmy elbowed him.  
  
"There are other ways to be... decommissioned. None of you have—well, John did, before—you're too young. No, not young, too...inexperienced to remember—what if it was you? You had to fight someone you knew, someone you...cared for to the death? What if you lost? What if you  _won_? What if—" and he closed his eyes, feet burning into the sand as he kicked up dust, walking through a newly-trodden ditch. "You had to hold them, as you sliced into their neck, and the only thing keeping you going is knowing that they'd do the same for you—that you'd want them to—"  
  
Percy drew breath quickly, but Oliver was ignoring him, glancing instead at the twins. "You tease me about my book. I don't care. That's your right. But if you've ever wondered why I go on about honor, about dying well—if I didn't have that to fall back on, I'd have snapped a long time ago. I'd never have gotten this far. So, be thankful, if you don't need that. I'm thankful, for you."  
  
"Oliver," said Percy, "I'm sorry—"  
  
"It doesn't matter. Get ready. We're Flooing to Ellis soon."


	17. Chapter 17

John didn't spar the day before the fight. In fact he didn't do much at all, instead lying in his room and looking sick and miserable. Percy tried to bring him food, but he didn't eat.  
  
"Some luck you have," he finally said, trying to give an encouraging smile.  
  
"Some luck everybody has," muttered John. "I've seen worse."  
  
"When you were fighting?"  
  
"No," he shrugged, "but there's a first time for everything." There, thought Percy, was a man who had not seen enough first times. Just more of the same—people coming and, less frequently, going, while John stayed in place.  
  
Fred, in contrast, was perfectly willing to twirl his mace with anyone who'd take him on. Which, in John's absence, was mostly Percy, short sword gripped and knocked back and forth. "I, er," said Percy. "Were you looking for advice?"  
  
Fred rolled his eyes. "No, thanks. Just need to get my act together. Till it becomes second nature."  
  
"Suit yourself," said Percy. "Okay, imagine I'm taking a pause now, to move my helmet—"  
  
"Ah, you and your fancy magic tools. Who has time for practicing those? C'mon, back to the sparring."  
  
"This is sparring! It's just with...thinking."  
  
"See, that's your problem."  
  
They Flooed to Ellis Amphitheater, of course, and Percy wasn't sure what to make of the comparatively bland walls. What was he, some wanded wizard to expect magical pictures all around him? Once they were out in their seats, the paintings would literally surround them from every side. And yet, why not? They had the luxury of the new arena. They might as well use it.  
  
"We  _should_  have gone to the new arena," said Fred. This, Percy quickly remembered, was not for reasons of art criticism, but rather his preference for the other arena's dinner.  
  
"I hate to admit it," said Percy, "but I think you're right. This stuff is...drier."  
  
"What's there to hate? I've been around the block."  
  
"It's just...a bit...silly, is all. Food is food. Or even if it isn't, they want us to fight at our best, why not feed us the same things we always eat?"  
  
Fred nodded at the front of the room, where the dignitaries—were there more of them than usual?—were milling around. "Old folks don't have the good health of us younger types. It'll make them sick, the poor things."  
  
"Who says this is rubbish?" said George. "Seems to me you've had as many seconds as I have, and that was..." He pushed his plate away, slowly. "Quite the pile."  
  
"Oh, well, you know. We had to cover for John, didn't we? Waste not, want not!"  
  
"You don't want any of this  _anyway_. Or so you say."  
  
"Does that even make sense to you?"  
  
"I don't know?"  
  
The dinner did not feature occasion for speechmaking by the fighters, which was just as well. John still looked sick; Fred was ready to delegate to George; and from what Percy could tell of Vinny and Davey, neither seemed given to oratory. Instead, some of Fudge's nearest and dearest were singing his praises in honor of the birthday. A pudgy man, who might have been, if not a son, a nephew or some relation, lauded the Minister's kindness and devotion outside of work. Or perhaps working at the Ministry gave everyone that same glazed-over expression, if they kept at it long enough?  
  
"I'm sure he's brilliant outside of work," said George, "and the sooner he can spend all his time there, the better."  
  
"Come off it," said Fred. "Whoever they get next would probably be just as bad."  
  
A short witch was up next, describing with a composed glee how much progress they'd made in Fudge's term. Slave riots down fifty percent. Inroads on the continent up twenty. Rogue elf population down thirty, subject of course to approximations. Many remaining obstacles left to achieve for him—"ugh," said George—or successor—Fred swore—but all in all a delightful man, simply the best, and someone well worth celebrating, clap clap.  
  
And then there was the long-haired man in an extremely formal suit, which seemed like it must have been stiflingly hot. Perhaps he had some magic to cool him off as he sung Fudge's praises, almost literally, bordering on a low but uninterrupted drone. His ability to list major accomplishments (stadiums raised, centaurs toppled, taxes slashed, well-being uplifted) without needing to pause to draw breath seemed like a talent worth applying somewhere with a more appreciative audience.  
  
When the panegyric was at last completed, John quickly made his way to the exits, supported by Jimmy. Fred and George stuck around, and Percy with them. One of the Minister's delegation slowly loped back to approach them; he had strikingly bright, yellow eyes, and long, thick hair. His keen gaze flickered from Fred to George, then back. "You're the percullor fighting tomorrow?"  
  
"Aye!" said Fred, a split-second before George chimed in with, "Well technically—"  
  
"You're his twin," said the wizard. "Twin fighters. What are the odds?"  
  
"Clearly very good," Fred smirked. "What're the odds I win tomorrow?"  
  
"I—am not a habitual gambler." He turned to George. "And you are a percullor also?"  
  
"Well, yes," said George. "We're identical!"  
  
"I see. But surely you must have some different interests, some things that separate you."  
  
"Funny thing about that," said Fred. "When you spend most of your life a slave, and the rest just sitting around waiting to fight—"  
  
"There's not that much time to develop different interests," George noted.  
  
"And besides, you don't need any more help, do you? You told us apart right away."  
  
He bowed slightly. "I am a perceptive man." Then he made sure to look at Fred specifically. "Good luck tomorrow."  
  
"I thought you said you weren't a gambler."  
  
"Even so. When the Minister is celebrating, everyone comes out to watch." And he followed his fellows out the door.  
  
"Right, then," said Fred.  
  
"Poor sign, mate," said George. "Your only fan doesn't even have any money to bet on you."  
  
"Like I'd ever see any of that! The problem is he's a he. And old."  
  
"There must be lots of people betting on you," said Ritchie. "Only probably you're not allowed to talk to them. In case they cast an illegal spell on you."  
  
"I don't need illegal spells," said Fred.  
  
Ritchie clapped him on the back. "You go do your thing, then."  
  
By the time they got back to their rudimentary beds, John was already asleep.


	18. Chapter 18

Fred scarfed down his breakfast, and everyone else ate theirs at a slower pace. Even John was recovered enough to nibble on some muffins, to Fred's horror. ("How can you  _eat_  that?") Percy turned his fruit peels over in his hands, wondering whether he could rearrange them into something cute for Oliver, but he eventually gave up hope of running into him and let them get thrown out with the rest of the morning's trash.  
  
To Percy's relief, the remains of the fruit would remain safely ensconced in his stomach, for there were no Muggles to execute. There was, however, the matter of an Animagus fight, such as it was. A woodpecker was taking on a pigeon, and for a wild moment Percy expected them to fight each other, claw and beak. The spectators wouldn't have a top-notch view, but that couldn't be helped.  
  
But instead, all they did was race each other, three laps around the arena. The pigeon was an unsteady flier, and the woodpecker streaked out to an early advantage. By the end of the first lap, however, the pigeon was steadying itself, and shortly into the second it passed up the woodpecker. After that it was no contest, and the third lap was essentially a victory coronation for the pigeon. Although the Animagi needed no wands to transform, it was clear that they must have had rights to them. Even above a stadium of people who could knock them down at any time, no owner would let a slave fly free.  
  
As the piping instruments gave way to the officials, Percy glanced up at the highest row of seats. The Minister must surely have been in the center, flanked by his well-wishers. Around him, shadows: some short and compact, others tall, with hair floating beyond them. Was it just his imagination, or could he even from the distance make out a pair of yellow eyes, watching the ground with a leonine focus?  
  
Then Fred and Davey were stepping apart, eying each other and waiting for the blast of light that began the fight. Fred began with his spikes extended, shield small. Davey, in contrast, was stumbling around slowly, either because he'd adjusted his helmet to breathe more easily or because he just didn't feel like moving quickly. For saecutors, there was no telling.  
  
Davey eventually swung down his sword, and Fred jerked his arm away before dodging backwards and trying to angle his shields. Then he withdrew his spikes, trying to reach out and clobber the fleeing Davey. This was to no avail, at first. Instead, Fred reached  _up_ , raising the mace just as he extended the spikes further out. At first, this struck Davey and then pushed him further backward. He turned, adjusting his helmet, and that time must surely have been to buy him a burst of speed. Fred withdrew the spikes as he gave pursuit, growing his shield—though that seemed needless, as Davey hardly seemed likely to strike. Or, thought Percy, were the saecutors' toggles merely to balance their weight, so they could not shed excess equipment after a tiring fight?  
  
Davey eventually turned around,and began slicing off a few spikes from Fred's mace, which had suddenly grown. Undeterred, Fred just tried to maneuver it deeper into his hands so he had more control, wildly poking it in every direction at Davey, who blocked them with the flat of the sword, then cut off even more spikes. At last, Fred turned to regroup himself, Davey rushing in pursuit.  
  
Yet another burst of speed—the helmet must have been very tight around his face—and he'd caught up to Fred again. Fred, unawares, was struck in the back, and in the absence of much armor on his back, the magic of the short sword could do its work. Though the wound was not large, it had clearly struck Fred in a delicate spot. He fell to the ground, wheezing, as Davey retrieved the sword. Fred jerked and turned over, but on those terms there could be no fight, and Fred raised his finger.  
  
Percy whirled around the stands, clenching the railing in front of him as if it was an enormous wand, as if the force of his will could send flame rocketing into the sky to quench the green flares popping up in every direction. Perhaps for the first time, he thought the lights were an enormous outrage. What did the spectators know, a populace who probably couldn't be bothered to vote for their Minister even if elections were free? There was surely no way anyone could count the flashes of light, so they were just estimating, prone to error. Particularly doddering old Ministers celebrating too-old birthdays. Unless—Percy glanced around again, fearing that the green sparks outnumbered the red ones—unless his senility would let him misjudge the crowd in Fred's favor.  
  
And then there was only the green haze swirling upwards from above the highest box. "No!" Percy screamed—or perhaps his mouth had lost function entirely, and it was George who cried out. He clung to the railing, frozen in place. Perhaps he could bring himself not to look away—he owed Fred something, at least, even a memory—but it was all for naught. Davey idled in front of him, blocking Percy's view, no doubt of an irreverent witticism mouthed to no one, and then—stepped away, to nauseating applause.  
  
Some time later, it might only have been moments, George got up and slipped into the aisle. Percy didn't ask where he was going—to be sick, perhaps, or to make arrangements for the body. He was a slave, and they would not let him get too far away. Whatever he was doing, Percy felt he had not earned the right to follow, and so he sat still, waiting for John and Vinny to emerge.  
  
He might as well have gone deaf, for the motions of the instruments did not register on his mind. If he looked, he could see the arms of the conductors poke out at unnatural angles. He ignored the instruments and looked only at them, stretching, flexing, waving. It looked absurd. There they were, free men and women, and that was the best thing they could do with their lives, wave their wands in ridiculous patterns? Percy wanted to be sick, but then recalled that, for no reason worth dwelling on, he had wanted to be sick just moments prior with no effect.  
  
And then the fight had begun. Or had it? Vinny was adjusting the spikes on his mace, and John was...standing still, holding the sword at arm's length but turning it around as if he was going to stab himself in the stomach. Only, instead, he was quickly moving it up and down and side to side, no closer to himself but nowhere near striking Vinny. Surely he was sick, but just as surely he would not sabotage the fight?  
  
Confused, Vinny stepped forward and lowered his mace. Instantly, John snapped back the flat of his sword, not so much slicing off the spikes as crushing them until they deformed. And then he was on the attack, shifting his weight, and lunging out for one stroke after the next.  
  
Squinting to focus, or perhaps to dry his eyes, Percy thought he could catch sight of the strategy. To be sure, Vinny would be trying to wear his shield to protect the most vulnerable parts of his torso. Percy had fought this off by aiming for many lukewarm spots rather than a few cold, crucial ones. But if John could memorize the patterns on the body, or simply review his own, then he could aim his sword a moment  _before_  Vinny turned his body into position. After as many fights as John must have narrowly won, it was a time-honed tactic.  
  
Vinny, seeming to catch on, grew his shield and waved it in all directions. That left his mace devoid of spikes, and John countered by dodging low and striking at his legs instead. When Vinny jumped backwards, John knocked the flat of the blade at him, and continued with his quick strikes. Always a second ahead of Vinny, maybe two by the way the percullor reeled.  
  
But when Vinny struck a thudding blow at John's hips, John seemed to stagger backwards through a spurt of blood. Percy groaned, a low quiet sound that was just as rhythmic as the stupid musical instruments had been.  
  
John remained in the helmet, any grimace unseen, and slowly inched forward to raise his sword again. Surely, with those eyeholes there was no way for him to see much of which parts of his own body the colder flashes of the sword corresponded to? And Vinny was so much stockier than him that it could not have been a direct comparison. Maybe John was just that sensitive? Maybe, thought Percy, as another couple spikes went flying, he was just demonstrating his strategy? There was no way of communicating anything personally, and any given spectator could only influence a fraction of the host's decisions. One had to be expressive.  
  
Another strike of the sword, glimmering briefly, and Vinny stumbled. John quickly pulled the sword back and looked ready to strike again before Vinny raised a finger.  
  
That time Percy felt no emotion at the flashes of green that filled the stands. His hands hung limply by his side, and the rail ran around the arena, below the supporters and gamblers, the slaves and the apathetic. Sure enough, the green light came shining forth from the top box—and then it was almost swallowed up by a black glow he'd never seen before.  
  
A wave of applause followed as the lights winked out, and Ritchie roared. John, who seemed to have taken a moment to catch his breath, stiffened as he raised his sword to Vinny's neck and drew it across.  
  
But then the official was hustling across with a wooden stick in tow that he handed to John. And John, though clearly exhausted, dropped his sword and held the dead stick aloft. The crowd cheered again, and Percy cheered with them; that, surely, must have been the symbol of his freedom, the promise of a real wand he was at last free to own.  
  
The official waved his wand towards John's legs, trying to heal the wounds he'd picked up over the fight. As always, freedom or no freedom. And yet, while John's grip on the stick was plenty strong, he was still almost limping out of the arena.  
  
"Something's wrong," Percy said quietly.  
  
"It's all right," said Andy, "I know it hurts. You can still be happy for John. He's our friend."  
  
"No." Percy shook his head. John and the official were at the door, and they were arguing over something—no, the official was pulling him out, hustling him out of the way. "They can't heal him, or—it's gone wrong."  
  
"It'll be all right. Let's wait till we get out of here."  
  
But Fred was dead and George had run off; they could be doing anything to John and Oliver was busy with the other slaves. As wonderful as it had been to know him as an equal, Percy squeezed his eyes shut, wishing that Oliver could once again be the teacher, the one who knew what was going on...  
  
No. It wouldn't bring Fred back to life. John had won his freedom, and nobody could take that from him. They had to go forward.  
  
Most of the other spectators had cleared out by the time a slave came to fetch them and lead them to the fireplace. George was there, red-eyed but standing. Oliver was pacing nearby. "Where's John?" he immediately demanded.  
  
The slave shrugged, Floo Powder tucked under his arm. "Getting sorted. Tattoos to be removed, that sort of thing."  
  
"That doesn't take that long. He needs to come back, gather his things."  
  
"Well, I'm sure Bagman will be along to bring him."  
  
"You're sure?"  
  
"...Yes?"  
  
"Promise?"  
  
" _Yes_."  
  
Raising his eyebrows, Oliver led them through the fireplace.  
  
They were talking to a transport slave, Percy thought. Not a soldier, not a freeman, not anyone who really had reason to care about honor and being pledged to the truth. Not someone Oliver should have taken so seriously. But he was too exhausted to do anything except wail and eventually sleep.  
  
And for that matter, the slave was, on the whole, correct. Bagman  _did_  bring John back.  
  
In a manner of speaking.


	19. Chapter 19

When Percy got up for breakfast the next morning—probably late, but probably no one cared—it took him a while to realize anything was off. Fred was dead. Fred was never coming back, and next to that, what did it matter how strange or how normal anything else looked? So as John stomped out of the room, Percy said nothing.  
  
And then there was practice, such as it was. George was staying in his room, and John wasn't practicing either, so Percy took turns sparring against Jimmy, Andy, and Ritchie in turn. That more or less completed, it was almost lunchtime, and yet he had no appetite.  
  
"If you want to go and talk to George, go ahead," said Oliver. "I don't think anybody's heart is in it, today."  
  
"We kept going after Jackie died," Percy said dully. "I mean, I did."  
  
"This is different. He's still your family."  
  
"Yeah. I—wait," Percy blinked. "John is still here. What did I miss?"  
  
Oliver sighed, and the percullors broke into nervous laughter. "It's sort of complicated," said Oliver. "Er—"  
  
"Is it really your story to tell?" said Ritchie.  
  
"I think she's getting a bit tired of explaining," said Jimmy.  
  
"She who?" Percy asked.  
  
"I think you're right," said Oliver, nodding at Jimmy and then glancing at Percy. "She, John. Or should I say, Angelina. If that's even her real name."  
  
"You've lost me."  
  
"You're telling me. Well, okay, as you know, John or whoever came here as a volunteer."  
  
Percy nodded, slowly. It was a strange, but not unheard-of, decision for young adults in poorer free families, who didn't stand in line to inherit and for whatever reason couldn't or wouldn't go to the wars or break into the Ministry. Once you earned your freedom, if you could negotiate for a cut of whatever your gambling proceeds had netted your owner, it could be a much more profitable career path than some of the others.  
  
"Well...it...turns out John was actually a woman who wanted to do the same thing. Cut off her hair, fit into some old clothes, and stuck around. She'd been sick the day of the fight, right, and so they tried to heal her but couldn't really cure that with their normal spells. They tried to figure out what was going on and realized she'd been lying to them. So they threw her back here. I guess they didn't know what else to do with her."  
  
"Why wouldn't she just join the women's fights?"  
  
"Less profitable, I guess. I suppose there's a point in that, everywhere else you get a wand and things are more or less equal."  
  
Percy nodded, remembering how virulently John—Angelina—had resented Spinnet and the "second-rate" women's fights, never mentioning that she had had the same choice. "And so, what, they're just going to throw her back here? Surely they can't mean for her to start the women's fights  _now_."  
  
"They wouldn't dare," said Ritchie. "She's  _too_  good. Nobody would bet against her."  
  
Percy felt offended, disillusioned, grief-stricken, but mostly hungry. "Are we, um..." What could he say? He wasn't going to conclude with "shifting our meal schedule back," not when Oliver looked so somber, but life had to go on in the patches where it could.  
  
"Yeah?" said Oliver.  
  
"Never mind."  
  
He tried to spar a little more, against the stake, but that time around could only think that it was a weapon like that that had killed Fred. Oh, another one had won...Angelina her freedom, but Angelina was a freewoman he barely knew. And what good had the triumph done, anyway?  
  
"Don't bother," said Oliver, as Percy spun to lash another notch on the stake, "if you'd rather not."  
  
Percy gulped in a breath for a moment, afraid he'd say something like, "if you need to go talk to George," but he did not add on any more. Percy, nodding, quickly turned to gulp down some lunch.  
  
Then he went by George's room, sitting down but saying nothing. Even something as straightforward as telling George that he loved him, that they would get through it together, seemed like it had the potential to backfire. In a normal fight there was always next to nothing left to lose. The blank hours in between, however, were racked with vulnerability.  
  
But even if he sat there for hours, Percy thought, it would still be time better spent than so many of the laps he'd run.  
  
"It's not fair," George finally whispered. "It's not your fault—but—"  
  
 _I'm not him. And since he was the only family you knew for—how long?—I might as well not even be family._  "I know," he nodded, then rushed on. "No matter how much it hurts, no matter how long it takes—he'd be relieved you're still alive, now. Still here. More than anything, I think. It was the first thing he told me. I don't know whether he was brave enough to be so straightforward with you. But you were everything to him."  
  
"He'd have had to spell it out for you—"  
  
"Because you knew all along."  
  
"No! I didn't—I wasn't—I'm not...enough, like he would have been. He'd have gone wilder, madder, and I don't care enough—to feel—"  
  
"Yes, you do," said Percy. "You're just different. Maybe you always have been. He understood, that you care differently. And he'd want—he still does, I think, want you to  _be_  everything you are. George." It had always been "Fred and George," he recalled, not "George and Fred."  
  
"The git." George shook his head. "Wanted to do everything first." He waited a few moments, crying in ragged beats, before spluttering "Oy."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Do you remember? When we were born?"  
  
"Not really," Percy admitted.  
  
"Curse that. Fred always said he was older, but then there weren't any papers. I thought you might know."  
  
"What did Mum say?"  
  
"She agreed with him. But maybe that was just to be polite."  
  
"Didn't you ever dispute that, to see if she'd agree with you?"  
  
"Nah," George shook his head. "I trusted him. What can I say?"  
  
"I think that's the right decision. And what would you do if you were trusting him now?"  
  
"Go out there and win a couple of fights. And then tell all my lady fans that I was Fred, back from the grave because they couldn't keep me down, and so they really ought to treat me with respect."  
  
Percy snorted. "For a ghost, he gives good advice."  
  
"I'll have you know I give good advice for anyone, living or dead," George-as-Fred declaimed, before crying until he laughed. "Right," he muttered. "Thanks for that."  
  
Percy nodded. "I'm right here, whenever you need me." It was too reckless to be a promise, but then, they all needed moments of recklessness. Perhaps in Fred's absence more than ever.  
  
Together, they made their way out towards the courtyard, raised voices spreading out to meet them. "...if I knew how to escape from here," Oliver was saying, "don't you think I'd have told some other slaves by now?"  
  
"No," Angelina argued, "because you keep going on about justice and things being fair, and slaves are slaves."  
  
"Well, Bagman sent you here, so under the law, here you are."  
  
"And what's the law, a bit of rubbish they can change at any moment!"  
  
"Whatever it is, it's not my responsibility."  
  
"Of course, so much the better for you if there's a couple saecutors around. That way your precious Percy is only half as likely to get himself killed."  
  
Out of sight, Percy froze, and George grasped his hand. Then Percy felt himself exhaling. He, too, had wanted someone's shoulder to cry on, and Oliver seemed to be otherwise engaged.  
  
"It's not about you," George whispered. "She's just mad at everyone."  
  
But Oliver, too, seemed to have taken it personally, because Angelina kept going. "Look, I know that's not how you think about it to yourself, but it's in your mind now, isn't it? You can't live with yourself in this setup either. It's not fair to anybody."  
  
"What do you take me for, your owner?"  
  
"You keep going on about honor. What about  _my_  honor? I earned that wand in a fair fight. All I want is the chance to wield it again, same as any man."  
  
Oliver paced back and forth, not noticing Percy and George by the dorms, perhaps not even taking in Angelina at all. Finally, he stared off into the distance.  
  
"There's a way," he said. "But you're really not going to like it..."


	20. Chapter 20

It was the cook's absentmindedness that saved them, Percy suspected, because by the time she'd caught on that something was amiss and sent a message through however she sent messages (the Floo? Surely she had to buy supplies, somehow), their plan had already been in place for long enough that the odds of failure had dwindled. He hoped.  
  
What happened was that Bagman showed up, wand at the ready. "I don't know what happened," the cook was blabbering. "All of a sudden she wasn't there. I've been searching everywhere."  
  
"You're all right," he said. And perhaps his hand on her back was supportive for her, but the crunch of his voice and the way he stared around the practice compound made him seem anything but comforting.  
  
He cast a spell—" _Homenum Revelio_!"—in the courtyards, the kitchens, even the opposite side dorms to no effect.  
  
George seemed to almost perk up at the last of those. "So,  _is_  there anybody in there?" he managed to ask. "W—I was wondering."  
  
"Not to my knowledge," said Bagman, but he Apparated in and out of them, just to make sure. "All right," he finally said. "Wood, do you know anything about this?"  
  
"No!" Oliver blurted. "Not until you got here, obviously. If you're ready to move on, we do need this space to practice..."  
  
"But you must have noticed when she'd gone missing."  
  
"I assumed she was sick again, she was sick a lot. Beyond that, I got wrapped up in the practice."  
  
"It's true," said Jimmy. "He goes too far, sometimes, making us run laps."  
  
"Oh, be quiet. It's worked for you."  
  
"Do you know anything about this?" Bagman asked Jimmy.  
  
"Course not," Jimmy replied. "If she'd run away, I'd have asked to go with. No hard feelings."  
  
Bagman shook his head, and then aimed his wand at Oliver. "All right. You're coming with me for a few more questions."  
  
"No!" Oliver blurted again. "She was my student, and she could be anywhere, I'm just as worried as you are! What do you think, I have something to hide?"  
  
"Of course not. So surely, you won't mind if I interview you all independently. It gives us more...reliable knowledge, about where she might have gotten out."  
  
"Take me first."  
  
Percy stepped forward, shivering, but trying to look Bagman in the eye.  
  
"Oliver's...tired. He's been on his feet all day. I can answer your questions. I—I was as close to him as anyone, you know; he was the other saecutor. I learned so much from him. I just hope he's okay. I can help you."  
  
"Him?" said Bagman.  
  
"Er...her. Sorry, it's still confusing. But she was my friend. I'll help you."  
  
"All right, then," said Bagman, looking from Percy to Oliver and back. "If you'll step this way."  
  
Percy nodded, walking into the kitchen and trying to steady his breathing.  
  
"Thank you for helping," Bagman said with a large smile. "Now, when was the last time you saw Angelina?"  
  
"I dunno, it was...two? Three days ago?"  
  
"Do you eat meals together?"  
  
"Yeah. Er. She would have been there...three nights ago?"  
  
"And what did you have for dinner?"  
  
"Same as always. Some kind of vegetables, lots of mush...beans, I think."  
  
"Did you practice after dinner?"  
  
"I don't think so. We usually don't."  
  
"So did you see Angelina that night?"  
  
"I don't remember. I don't think so."  
  
Bagman nodded. "Now, what happened the next morning?"  
  
"I practiced. Like always."  
  
"Anything out of the ordinary?"  
  
"No. I guess I wasn't working that hard, yesterday was one of my longer practice days so I eased up the day before."  
  
"Anything at all?"  
  
"I don't know! Oliver was pretty angry, I think, he was yelling a lot—at everybody—"  
  
"All right. I'm going to need for you to focus very hard on that morning."  
  
Percy said nothing. Could Bagman tell what he was thinking? Should he think about something else to throw him off? And yet if there was any way for Bagman to know what he or Oliver or anyone else was thinking, Bagman would have long since left the compound...  
  
Then Bagman had taken a couple steps until he was almost on top of Percy, his wand point-blank on Percy's head. "No!" Percy screamed. "Please, please don't—I don't know where he is, she, I don't—please—I can't—"  
  
It took him a moment to realize that Bagman had backed away, a silver tendril sprouting out of the tip of the wand. "Thank you," he said. "I won't be long."  
  
And with that, he'd Apparated away.  
  
Percy stared. Surely Bagman couldn't know. Unless that had been enough, just to take a wand to Percy's head? But he could have done that in front of the others?  
  
Or maybe all he was taking was enough to see and hear all that Percy had seen and heard, that day. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just the simple facts of the memory.  
  
_He stood behind the thin stake, as if that would keep him out of the way from the words hurled across the sand._  
  
_"What's your problem?" Lee yelled. "Been distracted, have you?"_  
  
_"We had one of our fighters win the stick, that's hardly a failure—"_  
  
_"Except that she was a free_ woman _to begin with. Bit unobservant on your part?"_  
  
_"Do you want to know what I've observed?"_  
  
_"Oh, yes. Do tell me. The things you observe are certainly the most engrossing—"_  
  
_"Look at_ this _!" Oliver shoved a wooden mace in front of Lee, who backed off._  
  
_"Easy there."_  
  
_"This is utter rubbish! Cracked down the side, barely holding together this way—"_  
  
_"You've gone round the bend, mate."_  
  
_"Do you not like this? Because I've got a whole box full of practice equipment..."_  
  
_"Good, then you haven't completely lost it..."_  
  
_"That is equally junk!" And Oliver flipped open the largest box, setting down the mace and picking out a raptor._  
  
_"What's wrong with that?"_  
  
_"Are you blind? The third point is about to fall off! Look how much it flaps down."_  
  
_"There's still three spokes and they still all point out. Would you like me to poke you with them, so you can see if they're all still sharp? I don't see what your problem is."_  
  
_"My problem is all this time you've been in and out of here, gossiping, asking whether would we like a bit of news, a piece of parchment, and not once have you checked to see whether our equipment is any good!"_  
  
_"Well you've never brought it up!"_  
  
_"I have seven people to train, all with different styles. It's not like I can keep everything straight."_  
  
_"Less than that now," Lee said coolly._  
  
_"How dare you. How dare you walk in here and insult a dead man, when maybe if he'd had some idea what he was up against—if he could have practiced better—he might still be alive!" Oliver hurled the raptor down, punching three holes through the lid of the box._  
  
_"Not so proud of your own teaching, I see."_  
  
_"Go on, that's right. Insult me. I can take it. But don't you dare talk about Fred that way."_  
  
_"Well, in that case, I think you're an absolute crackpot and an entitled brat."_  
  
_"And I think you're an oblivious gofer and an incompetent waste of time!" Oliver punctuated this with another puncture of the box._  
  
_Lee grabbed the raptor out of his hands. "Glad to see we've come to an agreement."_  
  
_"I'll be glad to see the last of you."_  
  
_"In that case, I suppose there's no sense waiting around."_  
  
_"How about this, how about you don't come back until you can bring us a new set of weapons. That actually work."_  
  
_"And when I find out that a full set is way too expensive? Particularly with how few fights there are these days?"_  
  
_"Always the money with you, isn't it? Like I care anymore. Just get rid of this." Oliver closed the lid halfway, nodded at Lee until he'd dropped the raptor in, and closed the other half._  
  
_"What am I, hauling off your junk for you? Who's the slave now?"_  
  
_"Oh, believe me, if they let me out of here, I'd be glad to chuck this rubbish in the bin where it belongs."_  
  
_Lee picked up the box. "That's not the only thing here that belongs in a bin."_  
  
_"Go on, we don't need you! You go save your precious money to bet on the fights. It's obvious that's all you care about. Here, I'll save you some time. Don't bet on us again. This equipment clearly won't get us anywhere."_  
  
_"So be it then," said Lee, already walking away. "All bets are off."_  
  
Bagman had not told Percy to stay, but he hadn't told him to leave either, and absent such assurances Percy felt most confident staying put. Until he heard the  _crack_  that told him someone had Apparated directly into the courtyard.  
  
He walked outside as Bagman approached Oliver. "I've gotten some very helpful information," he said, "and I think we'll be able to find him soon. I do, however, need to ask you some more questions."  
  
"Well, here I am," said Oliver, "go right ahead."  
  
"The questions need to be private to be most reliable."  
  
"I don't have anything to hide, and I don't know any more than this crowd."  
  
Bagman nodded, producing a small bottle from his robes. "Then you won't mind drinking this first?"  
  
Oliver wrinkled his nose. "Allergies."  
  
"What's a little discomfort next to finding your friend?" Bagman handed him the bottle, which he uncorked, held briefly—and then dropped, the shards bouncing across the ground as the liquid spilled among them.  
  
"Sorry," Oliver said, kneeling down and picking up a few of the largest pieces as if to prevent people from stepping on them.  
  
"Tut, tut, such form from the one-time champion."  
  
He said nothing, but continued to pick up smaller and smaller pieces slowly, as if taking care not to cut his hand.  
  
" _Incarcerous_!" yelled Bagman, and from nowhere ropes sprung up, binding Oliver's legs and arms. He winced, trying to cup his hands together, but they jerked apart. Bagman caught hold of the ropes, and then Apparated away again, that time with Oliver vanishing behind him.  
  
"No!" Percy yelled.  
  
"He'll be back," said Ritchie. "Oliver's too important. It'll be all right."  
  
"Have you ever seen anything like this before?"  
  
"Bagman's not mad," said Andy. "He won't get out of control."  
  
But it was little comfort as Percy paced back, avoiding the puddle dotted with the remaining pieces of glass, across the courtyard towards Oliver's room. He bent down and crawled under the bed, stroking the spine of the book to reassure himself it was still there.  
  
And then he reached farther back, where the edge of the wall was lined with a host of wooden practice weapons.


	21. Chapter 21

Oliver had returned the next day, though once again Percy wouldn't have guessed it. Oliver was not present at breakfast or practice or even in his room. But he must have eaten at some point, and Percy glimpsed him afterwards, walking back to the main dorms.  
  
"Hey," he called.  
  
Oliver said nothing.  
  
"Hey, don't just leave like that."  
  
Oliver immediately turned to pace the other direction, wringing his hands behind his back.  
  
Percy rolled his eyes. "Can you talk?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Okay. Oliver clearly didn't  _want_  to talk with him, and yet Angelina hadn't been returned, so it couldn't have gone too poorly. "We knew we weren't going to cover it up forever. They got a head start, as much as we could give them, and Lee knows how to Apparate, too. So they could be wherever. You did your part."  
  
Oliver nodded, blankly, and then looked up again. "This is going to sound a little silly, but..."  
  
"Try me."  
  
"I don't think we should be together anymore. Beyond the, er, obvious problem of being fenced in together, in the same complex..."  
  
"What? Oliver, no one blames you..."  
  
"They made me talk."  
  
"Yeah, and I killed a bloke, if we're going on record then—"  
  
"Not like that. I might even have been able to hold out—they have spells, to make you obey, this is all secondhand but there are a few slaves that can fight them. Went for the old-fashioned way of paralyzing me and forcing potion down my throat. More effective."  
  
"And so what? We both know you wouldn't have, if you'd had the choice."  
  
"So what? We're still not free, and—I'd just as soon you not stand out."  
  
"What, like suddenly I'll start liking women if only you leave me alone?"  
  
"No, it just doesn't do you any good to be the one who's in love with his—teacher, who's a fugitive smuggler."  
  
"Oh, quit bragging. You never smuggled anything."  
  
Oliver blushed but turned away.  
  
"And besides, will breaking up now make me stand out any less? Or is that just giving them what they want! We had, have, something amazing here, in spite of Bagman and all them. Are you going to let them take that away from you?"  
  
"Absolutely not! I'm trying to break it off first, so they can't win."  
  
"That's still giving them what they want, either way."  
  
"Do you think they actually care about what we do?"  
  
"No. But I do."  
  
"You're impossible."  
  
"This is not a discussion. As far as I'm concerned, we're finished, and if I need to be blunt about that until you get the point, well, maybe having you get mad at me is the best way to accomplish this." And he began to pace again, as if unsure whether to head to his own room or the main dorms.  
  
"Oliver. What happened to your hands?"  
  
"Nothing happened to my hands."  
  
"Then why are you still holding them behind your back?"  
  
Oliver paused, and then shook his head. "You see, here's the thing. Bagman owned me all this time. He'd never had to come check up on me, really, because I was doing well as slaves go. We barely spoke. But yesterday, everything that happened—breaking the glass, I tried to resist when they took me, as much as I could—well, I crossed a line. I'm not a nice, distant slave anymore. I'm a criminal. And the thing is?" He broke into a mirthless laugh. "There's a punishment for slaves who break the law."  
  
He dropped his hands, and Percy squinted at them. Where Bagman's name had once been, nothing remained. But then, just farther up the wrist, was the green outline of a snake.


	22. Chapter 22

There was another teacher who Apparated in, almost every day, and tried to give them advice. "If you take care of the little things," he said, "the big things will take care of themselves." The "little things" turned out to be adjusting one's posture and, more importantly, the grip on one's sword. Instead of running laps, which had been tiresome but left him too drained to do much of anything, Percy had to shift his fingers until they were supposedly curved at just the perfect angle and then leave them there, when in a real fight he could have been sliced up from a dozen directions.  
  
"You must have fought in your day. Did you  _ever_  think about this in the middle of the arena?"  
  
"I didn't have to," he said, "because I'd gotten them so completely under control here. Now see! Your lead foot is too far forward. You'll be off-balance."  
  
"Yeah. Because I'll be running."  
  
The teacher eventually left him alone and turned his attention to the percullors. Andy, almost certainly without meaning to, had achieved the "proper" grip within days of trying, and everyone else was asked to emulate him (although he had yet to consistently reachieve it). Andy, torn between pride in being the most skilled for once and sympathy for his frustrated friends, settled on standing around as if posing for a picture, his grip so loose he was prone to drop the mace entirely and start all over again.  
  
Oliver stood at a distance, dangling the spear between his fingers and waiting to be corrected. He never practiced much at all when the teacher barked at him, but in the evenings or before breakfast, when he had once read in mock voices for Percy, he would pace outside, twirling the round shield and tapping the spear, almost in a musical rhythm.  
  
The others had suggested that he stay in his room, but he refused, claiming a room at the end of the hall. "It was good enough for me before," he claimed, "and it'll be good enough now." George and Jimmy attempted to invite him to their vulgar song nights, but he declined, whether out of disinterest or distance it was difficult to tell.  
  
The visiting teacher did break new ground in explicitly including Spinnet in their practices. Admittedly, there was little in the way of actual sparring going on, and much of this consisted of him adjusting her fingers on her sword. She tolerated this with her mouth tightly shut, as if she was trying to brainstorm unusual strategies, such as ramming the sword backwards to concuss him with the hilt.  
  
Needless to say, this inclusivity won the teacher no favors with the other fighters, although their mockery of the women's fights was muted given that Spinnet had joined their meal schedule. At least her presence was a distraction from Oliver's intractable silence.  
  
Lee never did return, and they made do with the equipment they had, once it was restored to the box. Percy, watching from out of sight, allowed himself a small smile when Oliver, restocking the box, came across the  _Ministry evidence suggests you are in possession of a dangerously attractive face_  memorandum and another one when he did not immediately discard it.  
  
"You know," George said one night, "I'm not sold on all that booky ghosty business. But, don't you think...wherever Fred is now, he's sort of furious?"  
  
"No," Percy said, "I'd say he's pleased, that you're still, er, doing alright."  
  
"I meant about Angelina. She had us all fooled, and he never caught wind."  
  
Percy paused. "You know, you're probably onto something."  
  
"Course I am," George said, shrugging. "I knew him best."  
  
It was Spinnet who first tried to ask the teacher for any news from outside. Given how quickly he came and went, he had the potential to be a very informative source. However, his idea of "news" was "My wife and I are trying to have a child."  
  
"Well," Spinnet offered after a pause, "good luck."  
  
"Is there really any such thing as trying?" JimmyorAndyorRitchie asked, once he'd left. "Some of the couples I knew certainly didn't find it much of a problem."  
  
"He probably doesn't care about real news," JimmyorAndyorRitchie replied. "He's a freeman, doesn't have to fight. What are the wars to him?"  
  
"What's another Minister to you?" asked JimmyorAndyorRitchie.  
  
"Well, another Minister means another reason to go fight."  
  
"There's more than two schools, aren't there?" George asked. "There might already have been a new Minister. New installation games, bring in a couple other groups of fighters—it could have come and gone, and we'd never know about it."  
  
Percy stared down, not sure why that prospect unnerved him so much. It would have been a good thing, he told himself, if any fight could pass without anyone close to him being in harm's way. And yet...  
  
The teacher never made Oliver spar with the percullors, "probably because he wouldn't be able to watch both of us in time to correct both our stances," JimmyorAndyorRitchie muttered. "I mean, do you think it'd help?"  
  
"I'm not your teacher," Oliver said, "I'd hate to take issue with Bagman's insights."  
  
"Oh, come off it."  
  
"You never did before," said George. "We could have used the help then."  
  
Oliver reddened, looking down. George seemed calm, throughout, but Percy feared he'd inadvertently struck home—did Oliver blame himself for Fred's death? "That was different," Percy interrupted, "he wasn't trying to practice on his own then."  
  
"I mean," said JimmyorAndyorRitchie, "you'd interrupt when you thought we were looking vulnerable, when a janitus could have attacked. It was just hypothetical janiti, then."  
  
"Most janiti, I think, are actually hypothetical," JimmyorAndyorRitchie added. "You know how—well, that last fight, they wound up having more saecutors than they knew what to do with."  
  
"Well, there's not much of anybody these days."  
  
"The point is you never harped on about our posture, and that's what matters."  
  
"Hear, hear."  
  
"Have you ever taught another janitus?" Percy asked.  
  
"No," said Oliver.  
  
"This whole time?"  
  
"Most people come in either knowing what they wanted to do. Or by their size—or by the size they'll probably get to after eating this oatmeal—they're able to be thrown into one of the categories. Usually, as you know, percullors." JimmyandAndyandRitchie looked at each other and giggled. "I think it's almost easier, this way. Because you don't want to do what I did. You don't want to look at books and talk things over. You'd just as soon have someone interrupt you. Like you said."  
  
"Why me?" said Percy. "I mean, why wasn't I a percullor too?"  
  
"You were too tall."  
  
"I was too tall. That's good to know. What about John, he wasn't that tall—"  
  
"Angelina," said Oliver, "was tall for a woman. She came in with a plan, unlike certain slaves who never seemed to have any idea what they were doing."  
  
"Okay, I get it. You don't want to talk to me—"  
  
"That's not what matters," said JimmyorAndyorRitchie. "What matters is, what weapon did  _this_  git have, 'cause he must have been a fighter, too!"  
  
"Couldn't have been," JimmyorAndyorRitchie rebutted. "He would never have been competent enough to win his freedom."  
  
"Nah, they only let him go because he was too annoying to the others. Made everybody's value go down. An economic decision, you know."  
  
"When you win your freedom, are you gonna come back and teach? You could take this guy's job."  
  
"Couldn't pay me enough for that."  
  
"You could Apparate out, and take us with you."  
  
"Yeah, that's probably why this guy is such a git. He doesn't want us tailing along."  
  
The off days were the worst. Percy supposed the teacher deserved breaks every once in a while, if he had a family he wanted to be with. But that left the others with no common target to mock. The percullors could tease each other, even George would toss off a remark that left JimmyandAndyandRitchie laughing, but Percy would turn the pages of the book in an empty room and try and listen outside. Maybe Oliver had already gone to sleep at the end of the hall. Or maybe he had learned to silence his footsteps and was still outside, fending off shadows into the night. 


	23. Chapter 23

But the teacher was no fool. Whether it had been Oliver or Spinnet or the cook who'd asked him for specifics, or whether he'd just caught on, Percy didn't really care. What mattered was that Fudge was dead, an election was imminent, and they all knew it.  
  
Sort of.  
  
"What's an election?" said JimmyorAndyorRitchie.  
  
"It's when a bunch of wizards and wizards Apparate together and yell about who they want to be the new Minister," JimmyorAndyorRitchie explained. "Then they pick a new Minister, who was friends with the old Minister, and then they all go home and the slaves need to have dinner ready."  
  
"How many wizards and witches?"  
  
"Loads. Only free ones, obviously. I dunno who else does it."  
  
"But that's brilliant!"  
  
"How come? There's gonna be a fight, afterwards, to welcome in the new Minister. That's no good."  
  
"No, there isn't. Not if Harry Potter comes and kills them all off, if they're all together in one place."  
  
"Oh, he wouldn't do that."  
  
"Sure he would!"  
  
"If he knew how, he'd have done it before."  
  
"Or maybe he doesn't want to kill people that aren't going out to attack him," chirped up Spinnet.  
  
"Sure he does!"  
  
"Oh? You've been a slave all your life, haven't you? You wouldn't have the first idea what to do, if all the owners got killed."  
  
"Who cares? It'd be something different."  
  
They had an election.  
  
They elected a new Minister.  
  
"I dunno who it is," said the new teacher. "Some bloke."  
  
"Narrows it down," said JimmyorAndyorRitchie.  
  
"There was a witch who was close to the old Minister. But it's not her."  
  
"And what about the fight?" asked George.  
  
"You'll find out when I do," said the teacher.  
  
The teacher found out about the fight several hours before Percy did and announced it several minutes before anything sunk in. "Wait, hold on," he repeated, glancing into the clouds and not noticing that nobody was looking at him. "They elected  _who_?"  
  
The teacher stared down at his parchment again. "Rufus Scrimgeour."  
  
"I know that name!"  
  
"What's he for?" George asked. "I mean, what's he led? Or done?"  
  
"That's the thing. I can't think of it. He didn't work with Crouch the Second and I don't know whether they got on at all. And yet I'm sure I've heard the name, before..."  
  
"Percy?" the teacher asked.  
  
"Yeah. I mean obviously he's older than Crouch the Second and, one would hope, younger than Fudge, but I think most candidates would have—"  
  
"Are you listening to me?"  
  
"Yes. No. I'll adjust my stance. Here, this is my talking-about-politicians stance. I forget exactly where he's from, but I'm sure I—did I  _write_  to him? How do you spell that?" Percy took the parchment, glancing down. Yes, the spelling was what he'd intuited, and it wasn't something he could just guess.  
  
He blinked and then read it again:  _Robertson Amphitheater: Percy Weasley, Oliver Wood_. Then he looked up, the parchment still balanced on his fingers.  
  
"Angelina was right," Oliver said. "We shouldn't be too close."  
  
"Hold on. I never said anything—"  
  
"Good, and now you don't have to."  
  
"What do you want?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"Is everything all right?" The teacher glanced at Oliver. "I know it can be a rude shock, adjusting to fight again, but you still seem to be in fine form. Rest well, keep to your standard diet, and you'll be fine."  
  
"Are you blind?" Oliver asked.  
  
"Now, now. I think you really ought to start resting up, right about now."  
  
"That is—on second thought, even you can hit on a half-decent idea once in a while. Sleep sounds brilliant. Good night." And without further words, he stomped back to the dorms.  
  
"What about you, Percy?" the teacher went on. "I think you could do with a bit more review—"  
  
"If you want to be useful, go find out who this new Minister is."  
  
He did not expect the teacher to take him seriously, nor did he expect to get much sleep. Neither did he expect to develop any expectations beyond the coming week.  
  
On the first two counts Percy was pleasantly surprised. His dreams were immediately forgettable, not showing him the way forward, but at least he slept, the racing of his heart having made up for the laxness of his other muscles.  
  
And the teacher duly offered him a scrap of parchment, which he read in the absence of any strategic review. Rufus Scrimgeour, apparently, had been born to a hardscrabble family, barely surviving as free people, but had by some magic, literal or figurative, worked his way up through the police force despite not being particularly exigent in executing justice. Despite his eventual high rank, he had never seemed to aspire to the Ministry until just shortly before Fudge's death, when he had nominated himself as a candidate and, to everyone's surprise, eventually won a plurality of votes, with Fudge's loyalists splitting their allegiance among his inner circle and a handful of disaffected high-ups throwing their support to the relative outsider. Inspirational stuff for the impoverished freeman, to be sure, but nothing that could explain why the name still rung an echoing bell in Percy's mind.  
  
He glanced down at the parchment one more time to learn that, by Scrimgeour's request, the inauguration was meant to be brief and not elaborate, as a symbol of reducing expenses and prudent government. Brief. Right. Only one fight. Well, if he got killed, it certainly  _would_  be brief; he'd give the incoming Minister that.  
  
For that matter, why bother to go to all the trouble of having one fight at all, if the goal was to cut down on expenses? Having it be from just one school helped—and, for that matter, was probably what Bagman wanted, if it was supposed to be some kind of a punishment.  
  
Oliver seemed desperate not to be seen, a somewhat impossible goal. He had broken with form and, if only for one more day, eaten alone, at irregular times that surprised even Spinnet. However, he was still back in the room at the end of the hall and couldn't exactly hide if Percy wanted to pace by. "You knew this was coming."  
  
It got more of a rise than Percy expected, which was to say that Oliver narrowed his eyes a little. "No, I didn't."  
  
"You guessed, then."  
  
"There is that."  
  
"Well, it's almost the same, the point is—"  
  
"No, it's not. If I know, really know something, then it's set in stone. If I guess, well, then there's always room for things to change. People can...make different choices."  
  
"You pick a funny place to talk about free choices." No response. "What are you going to do?"  
  
"Fight with honor, as long as I can."  
  
Oliver didn't ask him the same question or any questions at all. Percy, in part, was glad of it.


	24. Chapter 24

They Flooed to Robertson Amphitheater and paced around the images on the inner wall, wizards and witches all with distinctive faces. Percy would have bet, only seeing one side of the curving wall, that no two were alike, and he recognized none of them. For all he knew they were people he, on Crouch the Second's behalf, had corresponded with. Or maybe they were bygone Ministers. They could be anyone.  
  
And then at last he caught sight of a couple more familiar faces. It was a piece of paper hanging on the walls, two wizards standing at opposite ends of the sheet. The one on the left was glancing up at the one on the right, as if curious.  
  
They were not to scale. The real Percy stood a few inches taller than Oliver, hustling ahead, but the one in the photograph still seemed to regard Oliver as an authoritative teacher. So that was how they were billing it. If the poster was any indication, their relationship hadn't become very public, so Oliver had been successful. Little surprise.  
  
When they reached the dining room, once again Percy found the dishes hovering in the air while the tablecloth cleaned itself. Curiously, he nudged a weightless glass of water to see what would happen. The water splashed up and down in the cup, which floated sideways towards George's. George gave him a grin.  
  
Then, George pushed his own glass off to the side, still airborne, until it bounced off of Oliver's, who, no longer a normal slave, was sitting with them again. "Cheers," he grinned.  
  
Suddenly the magic gave way and the dishes flew back onto the table's, bar Oliver's glass, which, sent off-balance, spilled onto his lap instead. Oliver twitched, kneeling to pick up the glass and set it on the table.  
  
"Sorry," said George, but Oliver said nothing.  
  
Percy craned his neck to glance at the front of the room, trying to pick out the new Minister. Fudge had been easily identifiable from a distance, his black robes laced with silver hems. But whoever Rufus Scrimgeour was (a question that still nagged him), he kept his head down and his dress utilitarian.  
  
"Why," George asked, "could Fred not have done something useful and left me his appetite? This stuff really is brilliant."  
  
"Because it's impossible?" Spinnet ventured.  
  
George waved his hand. "Magic! C'mon, there's got to be a way."  
  
"You can have my appetite if I snuff it," Percy said.  
  
"What would I want  _yours_  for? Yours is rubbish."  
  
Percy glanced down and found that George was right; despite what he'd taken to be the rich taste of the food, he'd hardly had any. Rolling his eyes, he tried another bite, than another. They fell through his mouth, slowly, in deformed pieces.  
  
George scarfed down dinner, then scanned the front of the room as if ranking the attractiveness of the higher-ups, then paced through the halls, and then, later that night, tapped on Percy's door.  
  
"If you've brought any more food," Percy warned him, "so help me—"  
  
"I haven't either; I'd have found a way to save it for tomorrow. No, er, Oliver says to tell you that if he dies, you're keeping the book."  
  
"Tell him I could have figured that much out myself, thanks, and if he cares, why didn't he mention it at dinner?"  
  
"Do I look like an owl?"  
  
"No, you could do with a bit more feathers on this side," Percy waved.  
  
"Well, if you ask me, he was busy at dinner, losing at spot-the-Minister. Same as you."  
  
"What, now?"  
  
"You two are ridiculous. If you're not gazing at each other—and you looked a fair sight cuter when you were, take it from me—you're staring at the same thing, be it the government or this book you go on about."  
  
"Hey, don't look at me. I'm not the one who broke it off."  
  
"It doesn't really matter."  
  
"It does," said Percy, "because I still love him."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"No. I mean, I love  _him_ , and what he is is, sort of a nutter, who believes in all that stuff, about dying well and winning well, if you have to. That sometimes it'd be harder—and I could never have believed that, until I met him. And, it's not just him, but everything he's taught me. I can't just stop feeling all of it just because he thinks that'd be convenient." He rolled over, still not climbing out of the bed. "Which is why I have to fight, tomorrow. Really try."  
  
George nodded.  
  
"I mean—Bagman's furious. Fred's dead, Angelina's missing, no one ever came to replace Jackie. It doesn't make sense, betting-wise, for him to put two of his up against each other and risk either of us getting killed, unless all he wants to do is get us hurt out of spite. And I still have no idea what Scrimgeour's game is. So I might as well assume, at this point, it's either Oliver or me."  
  
"He's old, and he's slow. You can't keep looking up to him."  
  
"Oh, don't tell me you've gotten confused by those silly posters! We did the maths, before, I don't think he's any older than me. No, he can keep going, even without me. He just won't let it on, if he can help it. And I—well, you've been brilliant, these last few weeks. I reckon if you can push through, without Fred, so can I."  
  
"You sound convincing."  
  
"Do I?"  
  
"Well, I'm here to lighten the mood, aren't I. Say something silly because it's so false."  
  
Percy rolled over again, as if talking into the mattress. "He's managed. And tomorrow I have to think of him as an equal. So—well. Maybe it comes to nothing. You know him. He's seen all these percullors fight and I have no idea what I'm up against."  
  
"Just don't count yourself out."  
  
"I can't. I won't. Because  _he_  won't. Told you; he's a nutter."  
  
"A nutter who knows what he's doing."  
  
"Exactly."  
  
"No, I mean, he has good taste."  
  
A wave of blood surged through Percy's face.


	25. Chapter 25

The melody of a horn breezed through the air. It was rhythmically repetitive, sounding in perfect fifths and fourths, without even the metallic rustling of valves up and down in position. Percy found the harmonies, such as they were, quite pleasing but would just have soon had a more varied repertoire.  
  
He rose up and tapped it. It fell silent.  
  
"Play something appropriate," he muttered, turning around to change his clothes. What did he want? Funereal? Stirring? Fast? Slow? Something with a melody, that could draw to a finish.  
  
Dubiously, he took it in hand, and pressed some of the valves. They bounced back up. He pressed his mouth into the horn, trying to breathe into it. It made a noise like dinner exploding. He set it down on the bed.  
  
Only the taste of the breakfast enlivened the meal, which otherwise consisted of Oliver's doomed attempt to find any deformation in the tessellated ceiling pattern.  
  
"You know," Percy offered after one too many glances over, "even the slave-owners would thank you for ignoring them when asked."  
  
The words struck home. Oliver tensed up and took a larger, sputtering bite of the breakfast but made no reply. No, that was no good—trying to drive a wedge between them had been Oliver's goal all along. And, Percy supposed, you were worth more to slave-owners alive than dead.  
  
Except Bagman.  
  
Except  _them_  to Bagman, because Oliver had defied him and Percy had tried to stop it. Bagman, who had a wand and his freedom, slaves at his beck and call, was afraid of them, was trying to get rid of them. He wouldn't let either of them go free, not if he could help it. So he, Percy, could be Bagman's opponent.  
  
And Oliver was there, trying to pretend he didn't care anymore. Percy had to be his opponent, too.  
  
There would apparently be no preliminaries. Bagman was there, waiting in the kitchen. Gone was his excited smile, replaced with an impatient arch of the eyebrow. For one wild moment, Percy wondered what would happen if he hurled his breakfast plate at him. They'd punish him, but what of that? It couldn't be any worse than having to fight Oliver.  
  
But there would be no honor in that.  
  
So he walked on, a half-step ahead of Oliver, back through the tunnels. Oliver had several leg guards to slip into, try on, shove back and forth, rotate around and around. Perhaps his complaints about the practice equipment had been somewhat justified. After that long, how much had he forgotten?  
  
"Need any help?" Bagman smirked.  
  
In response, Oliver slipped on a metal helmet.  
  
"Is there anything going on outside?" Percy asked. Bagman hadn't cast the transparency spell.  
  
"Animagus race or somesuch." A dismissive shrug from Bagman. "Won't be long."  
  
It beat the alternatives, Percy supposed. It beat them so considerably it hardly counted as a fair fight.  
  
They stood silently, Oliver adjusting the toggle on the round shield to no visible effect. Maybe the magic only worked once the fights were really on? Then why not practice with them?  
  
 _We could take him,_  Percy considered mouthing, but decided against it. He was wearing a helmet, after all, and Oliver couldn't see.  
  
A spattering of footsteps, no, applause, from above, and Bagman waved them forward. "Right, then," he said, before Disapparating.  
  
As they strode out onto the sand, Percy glanced up, past George and the others, and tried to catch a glimpse of the topmost box. Maybe Scrimgeour would be standing alone—there. Staring forward, wearing as simple a robe as any, was the man with yellow eyes.  
  
And then below him, the light flashed forth from the official's wand. It seemed to sear out a musical note, or maybe that was the cry of the voices around him, distorted by his helmet.  
  
That was his first order of business. He swung the toggle all the way to the side, to breathe more easily while waiting to attack. Across the way, Oliver seemed to be doing the same thing, albeit without the advantages of a magical helmet.  
  
Percy stepped forward, trying to tune out the flutter of heat and cold rushing through his sword. The round shield was too big. It'd be blocking almost everything reachable. Maybe he could wait until Oliver hurled it at him? Once again, he conceded that the helmet-doffing stratagem was probably never going to work twice, although if it got a rise out of Oliver it might almost have been worth it.  
  
Instead, he darted forward again, only for Oliver to lunge down, his shorter height making it an easier reach for his spear to catch Percy's legs. Without thinking, Percy gripped higher up the sword, so it was easier to dash forward and strike near Oliver's chest. In response, Oliver reached for the toggle to shrink his shield, until it was small enough to crunch the sword and flip it into the air. Percy, momentarily disarmed, leaped for it; Oliver crouched down, whipping the spear down to gouge Percy near the other ankle.  
  
Beyond them, bursts of noise.  
  
Percy landed, adjusting his helmet to take off at a run. Even then, his legs slowed him down, but it didn't feel any more difficult to breath, at least not compared to his preexisting fear. Oliver took off, beyond him, but he was quickly angling towards the wall. Percy tried to grasp the growing size of the oncoming faces. They'd near the boundary in three steps, two, one...  
  
He angled a moment early, that time grasping the sword near its hilt so he had more time to turn it. Oliver, pressed aside, tried to leap past, but a surge of chill gave Percy the interval he needed to strike blindly, out of reach, and hit a slumping target.  
  
For a moment, the spectators were there in front of him, close-pressed to watch each stroke of the blade. Then he'd angled away, and they were invisible again.  
  
Oliver had backed away, his sprint indicated by footprints in the sand. If there was blood dripping down, it had fallen into the hollows left behind. That time around, he'd staked out a position with plenty of distance from any wall. No, maybe Percy was misjudging the distance. If anyone was smart enough to expect Percy not to come up with the same strategy twice...  
  
Flipping the toggle again, Percy approached slowly. One heavy step, two, and then not a third. The round shield came skimming low to the ground, crashing into his leading leg and then, as he sidestepped, bouncing off his trailing leg.  
  
Well, Oliver had thrown the practice raptors around. Even Spinnet had. It couldn't be too hard, just to pick up another weapon and hurl it? He bent down, grasping the round shield, and fiddled with the toggle. Sure enough, one direction grew it into a more defensive piece of armor; the other shrunk it down into what he could only assume was a more throwable scale. Hoisting it up to his hand, he threw it across the way.  
  
It sank unevenly, and then Oliver was there, plucking it out of the air and charging forward as the crowd sung. Where Percy's stronger arm hung awkwardly in the air, unused to the throwing motion, Oliver's spear quickly followed. Percy, in retaliation, lashed out with the sword, but he had yet to switch it over to his strong hand in the absence of the shield, and Oliver easily turned that aside.  
  
That time, as they pulled apart, Percy did notice blood splotches, though he could not have said whose. Oliver was growing the shield again, almost daring Percy to reach out, to find a weak spot.  
  
The edges, maybe, or below. Percy lunged, and the spear knocked his sword aside, struck again, and found only the spear deflecting him, once more, and all too quickly the spear was darting through space. It didn't overshoot the mark, didn't give Percy time to chop at the arm that held it, just sped to fling back every blow.  
  
Back and forth they clashed, and Percy decided to act before Oliver had time to reintroduce the shield. After one counterblow of the spear, he pulled back the sword faster than Oliver could strike and followed its momentum away from the spear and down, further, until his balance gave way entirely and he rolled to the ground. The crowd moaned, as if more moved by the ruse of a fall than any injury he'd borne, but Oliver was aware of just when, and when not, he'd struck true, and stabbed out with the spear. Or perhaps he wasn't aware. He'd have spared no blow, either way.  
  
Instead, Percy continued to pivot on the ground before reaching up with his sword. The angle was awkward, but from behind it barely mattered. He could wait for it to chill before slashing, drawing a deep wound through Oliver's back.  
  
Just as quickly, the shield had flown into his face, preventing him from doing much more damage. As he reached out for his sword, he felt the spear whiz by as Oliver slashed wildly, as if trying to slice off Percy's head then and there.  
  
Louder and louder the spectators roared, and Percy stumbled backwards as Oliver clambered to his feet. How impressive could it really have been? They'd been fighting for what seemed like far too long. There was never any keeping track of time. One errant swipe could not thrill the watchers any further, surely...  
  
He paced back, tripping over something metal in the sand, losing his balance and exacerbating the pain in his ankle. And yet Oliver had no shortage of armor, while his own sword remained in his hand. What could have gone wrong?  
  
Oliver rushed forward, spear at the ready, and Percy took off to the side. Immediately, Oliver had spread his trailing arm back, toting the shield behind him. Percy stepped backwards, trying to catch his breath.  
  
And then, raising his arm, he discovered what the eyeholes would not let him see. Oliver hadn't been attacking  _him_. He'd been attacking his  _toggle_ —knocking it all the way to one side, and then chopping it off to lock it into place. Sure, Percy was able to move more quickly, but that didn't help if his feet were barely holding together. In the meantime, the helmet itself would choke him. It was bad enough in a short fight, but that one was drawing on and on.  
  
He'd have to make an end, and quickly. He struck at Oliver's tilted arm, was pushed away by the spinning shield toward the spear, and had to dodge to evade another strike. Sometimes he thought he felt the sword chill, but maybe that was because he'd used up all his sweat. Gasping for air, he fumbled with the sword, but there was no time to wait for a crippling blow. They drew blood from countless nicks, and then, as the round shield grew again to turn aside his sword, Percy stumbled to the ground.  
  
 _Get up!_  he urged his muscles, but they, recalcitrant slaves, would not obey. And if they were slaves, that made him something apart—something not defined by his wounds or his sweat or the lack of air. Just a man, who could love and dream and be brave.  
  
And even a slave, beaten down and overwhelmed, could signal for his master's overthrow. Perhaps not with the same finger they'd prefer to display to their owners, but, through the bloody sand and the engulfing roar, a finger nonetheless.  
  
He tried to turn, to make out the grim lights in the seats, but his eyeholes let little through. He could endure defeat—back to the courtyards and the teacher adjusting his posture, little good that had done him, and Oliver ignoring him—and somehow, Oliver did believe it was a good idea. So Percy could trust him even that much, to go along with it. There were choices to be made, even there.  
  
And death would be nothing. Oliver would be there, would hold him upright, would understand. Maybe he wasn't setting an example for the others—what did they know, about who was sacrificing what?—but it wasn't about them, really. Brutus had missed the mark, there. If he lived, Percy thought, he'd make a note of that.  
  
Yet even after the length of the fight, the wait felt entirely too long as well. Who was that Scrimgeour, a fool who didn't know how to count? It should not have taken long at all. Send up the green flash, let it be over with, but there was no sense prolonging the darkness as he rasped for air once again. A few more moments, he feared, and there would be no use even in Oliver's blade. Or maybe that was Bagman's idea of a punishment, that not even Oliver could touch him at the end.  
  
All around him, he felt the sand move, and the noises from above did not diminish. There was a grunting, and he felt his head bump into the helmet, as if the broken armor itself was attacking him. Percy held his breath—and then the entire helmet was gone. He was staring up into bright light, the official standing above him.  
  
"Where are you hurt?" the official asked, reaching his wand towards Percy's ankle.  
  
"No!" Percy twitched, jerking his legs backwards. "I mean—I lost. What happened?"  
  
"I'm not entirely sure." A couple quick spells and his legs were healing. The skin further up his body knit together, but as he squinted, he could see Oliver standing, his back once again whole. Percy exhaled, taking in another slow whiff of the air, as the wand swept over him once more.   
  
"What do you mean you're not sure?" he finally said. "He won, and they must have sent up red sparks because here you are healing me. Is Scrimgeour just slow? What's the holdup?"  
  
"He's not slow," said the official. "Come on, up with you. Can you stand?"  
  
"Yes, but—"  
  
"I don't know what he's at. You conceded defeat," and he raised his voice slightly so that Oliver, by then turning and looking confused but healthy, could hear, "at the same time."  
  
"What?" Percy blurted, catching sight of Oliver's jaw dropping.  
  
Then it edged forward. " _You_  conceded?"  
  
"At the same moment," the official went on, as Percy stared. The wound in his back had drove Oliver on in a frenzy, and he'd been fading at the last exchange of blows. But he'd held on, enough to knock Percy over without knowing it would take the last of his strength. "I didn't know what to do. You'd been going at it so long already. But Scrimgeour, well, I suppose he doesn't need a crowd to give him orders."  
  
And then he was reaching for the imitation wand, holding that high in one hand and his real wand in the other. He hesitated for a moment, then raised the wand, casting " _Geminio!_ " In a moment, the wooden wand was twinned.  
  
"Go on," he said. "You are both victors today."  
  
Percy reached for one of the wands; Oliver, hands shaking, followed a moment later. They were useless sticks; they could strike no one down, by magic or force. They could be snapped at a moment's notice.  
  
But with Oliver standing by his side, it didn't matter. He was free.


	26. Chapter 26

"So. Er. Can I—you know. Come along?"  
  
They were standing outside the fireplace by the kitchen, waiting to Floo away for the last time. There'd been little they needed to collect from the school.  
  
"Why," asked Oliver, "would you want to do that?" Supposedly, he'd wanted to speak with Bagman and see if he was entitled to any earnings, a cut of the gambling profits. Technically, according to Ritchie's memory, he had a case. Most fighters who won their freedom did get a sum of gold before they were sent on their way. Under the circumstances, Oliver was somewhat more dubious but hopeful.  
  
"Cover your exit, mostly, in case he blows up."  
  
"Cover it with what? You don't have a wand yet."  
  
"Neither do you."  
  
"I'm feeling brave."  
  
"You act lucky."  
  
Oliver shrugged. "There is that."  
  
"What you said before, about us not being together because, you know, we were still slaves. And they could, you know—"  
  
"Turn us against each other."  
  
"It didn't even work. If you're going to be like that about it."  
  
"It was close."  
  
"Even so. Now that we're free, do you think—well—maybe we could try again?"  
  
Oliver glanced into the fireplace. "It's a big world that's opening up for you. There are a lot of people out there that you've never got the chance to meet yet."  
  
"Oh, because you're so well-travelled!"  
  
"All I'm saying is you have a lot of options open to you, and it doesn't make sense for you to waste your time on me."  
  
"I loved you when you wouldn't speak to me, and it was not a waste."  
  
"In that case," Oliver glanced down at Percy's blank hand—the tattoos had been vanished almost as soon as they'd left the arena—"I would love to, er, see where things go."  
  
Then he was stooping to kiss it, and Percy stepped in closer, embracing him with arms grown strong, and Oliver hugged him back, and for all the power of his arms it had never been easier to breathe the air between them.  
  
"Wotcher," called Jimmy, passing by, "whoever Floos you over is going to have a shock. First multiple winners in fights and now this?"  
  
"Technically it was the other way around," Percy called back, not removing his arm.  
  
"Oh, you and your technicalities."  
  
"Yeah," Oliver muttered, "us and our technicalities. What  _happened_?"  
  
Percy stepped back, casting his thoughts backwards.  
  
"I mean, I'm not complaining..."  
  
"No," said Percy, "it's Scrimgeour's first games as Minister, right? He wanted to put his own seal on things, show off that there was a new order."  
  
"We were evenly matched, I'll grant you."  
  
"I met him," said Percy. "With George and Fred. The night before—he seemed interested in Fred. That the fighters..."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Were  _twins_. Oliver! Give me that."  
  
"Give you what?"  
  
" _That_." Percy nodded at the book that Oliver, raising his eyebrows, grabbed from under his arm and passed to Percy. "I told you. It wasn't that I'd  _heard_  the name before." He opened it up to the initial pages. "I'd  _read_  it."  
  
Signed at the bottom of the page was the name  _Brutus Scrimgeour_.  
  
"The Minister worked his way up from nothing," Percy repeated, "came from a poor family. That wouldn't have been past volunteering. And somewhere along the way, he'd have gotten access to a printing press. Maybe he couldn't save his brother, but he could keep his legacy alive. For people like us."  
  
Oliver flipped through the pages again, past his own marginalia, to where Percy had bound up his own recollections. "I  _told_  you there was such a man."  
  
"You did," said Percy. "But things are changing now."  
  
"In that case," Oliver said, "I can think of no one else I'd rather spend the future with."


	27. Chapter 27

Griphook the Goblin lived in a cave in the south, where few humans ever trod and where even fewer were invited time and again. More often than not, he was the one hunting down those unfortunate wizards who failed to honor their pacts. Flighty creatures, wizards were, even when they stayed close to the ground.  
  
So it was a surprise for him, one evening, to see a young man making his way across the ground leading up to the cave, wand in hand, wearing a light travelling cloak. It was even more unusual for the man to be sporting a carefree smile, as he picked his way among the rocks by the cave face, avoiding the grottos that led nowhere and knocking a dark stone three times against the cave walls.  
  
It took a while for Griphook to negotiate his way to the door, shunting aside a larger rock and, with a wave of his long pointer finger, beckon the wizard inside. The man crouched low as he followed Griphook back.  
  
The cave walls were beset with glittering stones—some gems, others solid pieces of gold, others perhaps just tricks of the light. The wizard touched none.  
  
"So," Griphook said, once he'd taken a seat in a chair carved of stone. The wizard remained standing, finding the cave unsuitable to his proportions. "What brings you here?"  
  
"Money," he admitted, giving what passed for a shrug as he continued to squat.  
  
"Ah...yes. Quite the fight, I hear tell, this Weasley and Wood?"  
  
"Nothing like it."  
  
"You were there?"  
  
"I was not. But from all I've heard, Scrimgeour will be a...different sort of Minister than the past. More conciliatory."  
  
"Two victors. It's nice when a fight has two victors. Almost always."  
  
" _Almost_  always?"  
  
"Everyone comes out pleased  _except_ ," Griphook cackled, "the poor old sods who'd bet on one or the other to lose!" And he spread his hands to indicate a heap of sacks, all full of gold. "You can count on half the old guard to lose their coin every now and then, but for so many at once to go this close to bankrupt, it's a special occasion."  
  
"Indeed it is. There'll have to be change now."  
  
"So long as you spend this in the right place, I think so."  
  
The man nodded, testing the weight of one of the bags.  
  
"Can you carry that all right?"  
  
"Oh, I've lugged around worse loads."  
  
"Very good," said Griphook. "What made  _you_  back out?"  
  
"I just...had a feeling," he said, swinging a couple of the bags over his shoulders. "To call the bet off."  
  
"You're all right for a human."  
  
"Well, thank you very much."  
  
"You bring that direct to Potter now, you hear? He'll know how to use it, and we can have an end to this cursed war yet."  
  
"Peace and freedom," said the wizard, toting another bag alongside, "that's my game."  
  
"And a good game it is, too. Mind the ceiling, now."  
  
Lee Jordan walked out of the cave and into the cool night air.


End file.
